


Don't Let Me Die Before I Wake

by alpha_exodus



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassins & Hitmen, Flirting, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Oral Sex, Polyamory Negotiations, Rimming, Shower Sex, Stockholm Syndrome, Threesome - M/M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-08-29 20:07:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 106,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8503645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_exodus/pseuds/alpha_exodus
Summary: This is the end, Eric thinks. He's been kidnapped and sentenced to death and this is the end. But well—at least his kidnapper is attractive. He supposes there are worse ways to go.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2016 Check Please Big Bang!
> 
> naomilasenby created some very smutty art of the boys as well ;) [You can find it here!](https://lasenbyphoenix.tumblr.com/post/152637521104/dont-let-me-die-before-i-wake-check-please-big) (nsfw link).
> 
> This fic has been an incredibly wild ride - I never expected that this would reach over 50k, let alone double that! The entire premise was 'Kent would be a terrible kidnapper, wouldn't he? haha!' and then that sort of just.... expanded. I owe thanks to a TON of people: yoursummerfrost - thank you so much, bby, for reading over everything and holding my hand and promising me that my plot points made sense! And many thanks as well to jacksbits for jumping in last minute and helping me so much with editing!! Beyond that, there are more people than I've been able to keep track of who have had to listen to me scream about getting this done - so thank you. You know who you are. <3
> 
> Please read the fic warnings/tags if you are a sensitive reader! Some additional minor warnings: needles/syringes, use of wire as a weapon, training with knives. I do hope you enjoy!!!

_Bu-bump._

Eric hadn’t meant to see.

Fuck, if he had just decided to just stay back at the hotel with Mama and Coach, had sat and watched TV or something, he wouldn’t be part of this mess.

 _Bu-bump_.

Everything’s moving in slow motion. He can feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins as everything in his body screams _run run r u n!_

So he runs.

He’s not fast enough oh God oh _God—_

_Bu-bump._

A hand grabs onto his wrist and he’s unceremoniously yanked to the ground. His head nearly slams against the concrete—he catches himself at the last moment, skinning his palms raw.

But a moment is all they need, and then they’re on him, shoving him flat onto his stomach, _no no no_. He can’t see anything. He thinks there are two of them, maybe three, but he’s not sure.

“You’re a fast one, aren’t you?” The voice almost sounds teasing.

“We don’t have time to deal with this shit.” Another voice, darker, rougher. “Found his phone. Want it for evidence?”

“No. Just get rid of it.” And there’s the third voice; he was right about how many there were, at least.

 _Ba-bump_ , _ba-bump._

There’s a sickening metallic crunch, like that of a phone being crushed on accident, only this isn’t an accident—they’re doing it on purpose, no no _no!_ He barely holds back from screaming, even though a whimper still seeps through his gritted teeth. God, no, not his phone, fuck, he hasn’t backed up the pictures of his group of kids at summer camp yet, and there’s that strawberry torte recipe he’d dreamed about and typed up as soon as he’d woken, gone, gone forever, and now he can’t call Mama or Coach even if he’d wanted to because he’s long since forgotten their numbers, oh _God_ —

The third voice speaks up again. “We don’t have much time. Hurry.”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Sorry, kid,” the first voice mumbles in his direction.

 _Ba-bump ba-bump ba-bump_ —

A hand grabs his arm, squeezes, and then there’s a sharp prick. He feels woozy. _Oh Lord._

Everything goes black.

xXx

He wakes up to pitch darkness.

His stomach aches; he’s not sure if he’s nauseated or just really, really hungry. His head is throbbing, his palms hurt—and he has to pee, so he heaves himself up away from the floor where he’d been lying, feels along the wall until he finds a corner to relieve himself in.

He makes his way back to about where he thinks he’d woken up, sliding down against the wall and burying his face in his hands. Not that it makes a difference—he can’t see anything anyways. He’s shaking. Flashes of his last waking moments whiz through his head.

He’d seen it—he’d seen them killing someone.

It hadn’t even looked like a struggle: just the sharp crack of a snapped neck, easy enough to miss if you weren’t right there. But he’d _been_ right there, that was the problem. He’d been looking to see if he could find the only gay bar in the Niagara Falls area, and he shouldn’t have walked; Google had made it clear that the area wasn’t great from the get-go. But he’d ignored that, had made sure his wallet was secure in his shorts pocket (which he checks to see if the wallet is still there—but no, it’s gone) and assumed he’d be okay.

He’d been wrong.

The odd thing is that his assailants don’t seem like run-of-the-mill hoodlums at all. They’d been too systematic about kidnapping him—he’s been _kidnapped_ , what the ever-loving hell?—they’d been nonchalant, even, given that they’d just killed a man. And the worst thing is that he’ll probably never find out what’s going on. Villains only spoil their secrets in movies, after all.

He wonders if he’s in shock. He feels way too calm about all of this, especially knowing that there’s a very real chance that he could be killed soon.

He starts thinking about his parents, and that’s when the tears start pricking at his eyes, stinging a trail down his face. Mama’s probably worried sick, and Coach—he’d hide the worry behind whatever show of macho bravado he felt like putting on, but he’d be frantic nonetheless. Oh, Lord, he’s gonna be in so much trouble if they _do_ find him, but—he really has no idea if that’s going to happen. _God_.

At least he doesn’t have siblings. He’s got friends, but none that he _really_ talks to—not since his best friend from elementary school moved away in fifth grade. God, Eric had been so ready to attend college, to get out of Madison, to have friends and maybe even _meet_ someone, but—but.

It looks like that’s not in the cards anymore.

The floodgates open. He curls up into a ball, allowing himself a few shuddery sobs before forcing himself to calm down. Dehydration is hellish to deal with, and he needs every ounce of strength that he can muster up in his small body, just in case he gets the chance to run.

But in the back of his mind, swimming in with the pounding dread, is the thought that he most likely won’t get that chance.

xXx

He’s not sure how much time has passed when the doorknob finally turns. He just knows that he’s really fucking dizzy and that he’s slept fitfully maybe two or three times for who knows how long (wake, panic, think, sleep, wake, panic, pain, pain, pain, in his chest, his stomach, his throat, oh _God_ ). He expects to be blinded as the crack in the door widens, flinching out of reflex—but instead there’s only a dim glow of light beyond the door. There’s a person standing there, but even though they’re holding a flashlight, the beam of light is thankfully directed away from Eric’s eyes.

“Hey, kid,” says the flashlight-holder.

He recognizes the voice—it’s one of his kidnappers, voice number one. The Nice One, as Eric’s been thinking of the guy in his head. The one that’d apologized.

Nice Guy closes the door, shuffling over to a chair that’s sitting in the middle of the room and setting the flashlight so it’s pointing upwards beside it. Eric hadn’t even known there was a chair in here. He hadn’t bothered to explore the center of the room; at best he might’ve run into the wall or tripped, and anyway conserving his energy has so far been the only thing he could really do.

“All right, so, a couple of rules,” Nice Guys says. “One, run and you’ll regret it. Two, answer my questions nicely and I’ll try to make this painless.”

“Painless,” Eric says drily. His voice is barely more than a hoarse whisper.

“Believe it or not, I don’t actually want to hurt you,” Nice Guy says, and he sounds almost wistful. Human. Eric’s starting to be able to see his face now that his eyes have adjusted to the light. The guy’s young, not much older than Eric if he’s guessing right. And honestly—kind of attractive. Maybe it’s the lighting.

“Doesn’t matter what I believe,” he rasps eventually. Part of him wonders why the guy’s showing his face so freely—don’t people like him hide their identities at all costs?

The guy notices him staring. Of course he does. “I can give you my picture if you want to look longer,” he says, and then he fucking _winks_.

“Egotistical maniac,” Eric mutters, because he’s feeling saltier than his MooMaw’s country ham and he’s not in the mood to be picked on.

“Hey, that hurts,” the guy says, holding his hands to his heart, like a fake wound.

“I thought you were gonna ask questions?” His voice crackles all over the place, and the guy takes pity on him, rolling a bottle across the floor. _Water_. Eric snatches at it, screws it open and guzzles it before he can even think about what they might have drugged it with—not really like it matters, though.

He’s pretty sure he’s not getting out of this alive.

The guy sighs. “No one wants to have fun around here—for good reason, I guess. All right. If you do this right the first time, we won’t have to go through the part where I have to squeeze info out of you, and I’d rather avoid that if it’s all the same to you, yeah? So, tell me what you saw from the beginning, like you would tell the police.”

Eric debates lying, but he doesn’t even know what lie he would tell and he can’t see it helping him at any rate. “I was cutting through the side street so I could save some time walking,” he starts, then has to pause and cough because his throat’s still really damn sore. “Sorry, um—“ _Why is he apologizing don’t fucking apologize to the murderer—_ “I was cutting through, and then I just saw—it? You know.” His stomach turns at the memory. “Y’all—killed someone.”

“Did you know them?” the guy says, leaning forward in his chair. He doesn’t flinch at the word _kill_ , looks entirely unfazed about it all. It’s kind of terrifying.

“No,” Eric shakes his head. “I couldn’t even tell what they looked like.”

Inspecting him, the guy cocks his head. “Well, you don’t seem to be lying,” he mutters, mostly to himself, then lets out a big sigh and stands, pacing heavily back and forth in front of Eric. “ _Shit_.”

Eric swallows. “What?”

The guy gives him a tight-lipped look, then sighs again. “I’m really sorry,” he says, and oh _God_. There’s only one thing that can mean.

Eric’s going to die.

He’s going to die and he can’t do anything about it and he won’t even get to say sorry and he’ll never go to college or fall in love or even fucking have sex or kiss a boy—he’ll never bake another pie again, he’ll never hear his Mama’s voice or sit and chat with Coach about life again, or—

He doesn’t realize he’s hyperventilating, curled into a ball, until the guy is crouched right down beside him. He flinches instinctively, because fuck fuck it’s over it’s _over_ —

“Hey, hey, don’t freak out,” the guy says, and Eric lets out a weak sob through a painfully tight throat.

“You’re—going to kill me—” he chokes out, and then his voice cuts out in terror because the guy—the _assassin_ —puts his hand on Eric’s arm and—

“Shh, hey, calm down. Breathe. I’m not—okay, I might have to, but not yet, okay? Not yet.”

_Not yet._

“W-when?” Eric shudders, a sob wracking through his body.

“C’mere, sit up,” the assassin tells him, lowering himself down until he’s sitting against the wall next to where Eric is curled up. Eric’s jaw is all locked up, but even though he’s shaking terribly, he slowly manages to coax his limbs to cooperate so that he can sit up. God, the fear is diving into his body, filling his lungs and swimming out through his eyes. “For what it’s worth, I don’t _want_ to kill you,” the assassin says.

Eric whips his head around to stare at him, a contemptuous shiver travelling down his spine. “Why not? Isn’t that kind of your thing?”

“You’re a sassy one, aren’t you?” The assassin raises an eyebrow, and despite himself Eric almost wants to laugh at that assessment. “To answer your question—nah, not really. Obviously this doesn’t change the fact that I’ve killed people, but generally we only target the nasty sort, you know.”

“Like—bad people,” Eric wraps his arms around his knees.

“Yup. You got it. Like, the guy you saw us nab? Notable gang member. He killed a fuck-ton of people.” The assassin shrugs, and when he does so his shoulder nudges against Eric’s. Eric is surprised to find it kind of comforting. It’s probably just a human contact thing; he hasn’t touched anyone for days and that must be why it feels sorta nice, even though this guy—kills people. Bad people, yes, but Eric isn’t a bad person, is he?

“Then—why m-me?” He’s shaking, and it comes through in his voice no matter how much he tries to hide it.

“Because you were there.” The assassin heaves a sigh. “Hell, I wish you hadn’t been. But Zimms is gonna wanna eliminate evidence, and I know that sounds really fucking cold, but—we can’t send you back out into the world, obviously. You know too much.” He’s silent for a moment, then exhales sharply—“But _fuck_ , I hate killing the innocent ones!” He clunks his head back sharply against the wall.

Eric can feel the guilt radiating off of the man’s body, and slowly, the plan that’s been percolating through the back of his mind takes on a tangible shape. This guy—doesn’t want to kill him. This guy is actually kind of nice, just like Eric had initially thought. So that means—well.

Eric just has to convince the guy not to kill him. Then he won’t die.

He doesn’t know _how_ he’s going to convince him, but it’s the best plan he’s got. He’s sure as hell not going to risk trying to escape when there are probably goddamned assassins running all over the place.

“Sorry—did I scare you?” The assassin is looking at him, and Eric realizes he’s been quiet for quite some time now.

He lets out a dry laugh. “I’m kind of terrified outta my bones right now, but I think that’d be happening whether you were here or not.”

“Ah, fuck. Sorry.” The assassin sighs.

“You apologize a lot for someone who’s supposed to be a ruthless killer, you know,” Eric points out.

“You’re a bit sassy for someone who’s probably not surviving this, you know,” the assassin bites back.

Eric grimaces. “Lovely. I’d almost forgotten,” he deadpans. The assassin sighs ruefully, shaking his head, and Eric replays the last couple of seconds of their conversation—wait. “’Probably not’?”

The assassin shrugs. “Gotta meet with Zimms before I know what to do with you. He’s my boss, I guess.”

“Oh,” Eric says. He swallows. “And it doesn’t hurt you to tell me that?”

“Nah,” the guy says. “Well—it could. But I’m told I’m a little cocky, and it doesn’t look like you’ve got a very good chance of escaping, so if talking like this is gonna help you calm down then I’ll take my chances.”

“Help me calm down?” Eric’s brow wrinkles.

“Well, you’re not hyperventilating anymore,” the assassin says, smiling wryly.

And he’s right; Eric actually feels—well, not _good_ , obviously, but okay. He’s not panicking anymore, at least. “Uh, thanks, I guess,” he murmurs.

“No problem,” the assassin says, and then his smile widens for a fraction of a second before disappearing.

It doesn’t matter. Eric’s already seen it. That cements his thoughts about the guy in his head—it seems like he’s actually not a terrible person. And that means—that means Eric might just have a chance at getting out of this, even if it means taking advantage of this guy’s kindness.

Which reminds him—“Are you allowed to tell me your name? It’s annoying to call you ‘that assassin guy’ in my head all the time.” He’s _not_ telling him that he’d called him the Nice One for a while—there’s no way in hell he’s going to give him any more of an ego boost.

The guy chuckles. “Yeah, sure. I’m Parse.”

Probably a code name, Eric thinks. “Well, it’s not so nice to meet you, but—you know. I’m Er—mmph!“ Eric flinches with a tense whimper as Parse claps a hand over his mouth.

“You don’t want to tell _anyone_ your name here, got it? That’s rule number three,” Parse says, voice low with warning. Slowly, he takes his hand off of Eric’s mouth, and Eric resists the urge to shiver.

“So—what’re you gonna call me?” Eric asks, shaken.

“Shit, sorry, I scared you again, didn’t I? Fuck, I’m no good at this.” Parse groans. “Anyway, whatever. Umm, I’ve just been calling you ‘that cute guy we picked up last night’ in my head, but I guess I could come up with something.” He looks contemplative, but Eric is still stuck on _‘that cute guy’_ , oh goodness.

“Wait. Cute?” he asks. For once, his pulse is jumping for reasons other than fear.

Parse laughs, a smirk sliding onto his face. “Well, yeah. I mean.” He motions at Eric. “Cute.”

Eric flushes all over, because he’s dirty and tired and his face is probably stupidly blotchy from crying, and of _course_ the first time he gets to flirt with another boy, he looks worse than a pie put together by his three-year-old niece.

Not to mention that he’s probably a short walk from his deathbed, and the boy happens to be is his executioner.

And fuck, he doesn’t even know if it’s flirting at all, does he? “Wait. Are you _hitting_ on me?”

Parse snorts, looking away. “Ah, shit. That’s kind of embarrassing. Yeah, I guess I was?”

“You _guess_?” Eric’s heart is in his throat.

“Probably,” Parse shrugs. “I’ll stop, don’t worry—you’re kinda young anyway, aren’t you?”

“Eighteen,” Eric admits. His heart flutters embarrassingly in his chest.

“Huh. You look younger—shit, okay, never mind, I’m being stupid inappropriate.” He groans, tucking his chin into his palm. “I swear, I’m not here to try anything weird, but you were looking at me like—yeah, never mind, that was probably just you being scared as hell. I should stop assuming people are hitting on me—all right. Yup. Shutting up now.” He clamps his mouth tightly closed.

Eric stifles a laugh. “Lord,” he says softly.

“What?” Parse raises his eyebrows.

And this is _really_ fucking weird, but—but. He might die today, or tonight—hell, he doesn’t even know what time it is. His breath smells gross and he’s hungrier than he’s ever been in his life. But Parse was _actually_ flirting with him, and—and Eric really, really wants to flirt back.

So he blindfolds his guilty conscience and says, “Maybe I _was_ lookin’ at you like you thought I was.”

Parse’s eyes widen. “Wait—you actually—like boys?”

“Exclusively.” Eric bites his lip, then lets out a shaky laugh. “That’s—the first time I’ve ever said that.”

“Well, fuck, I didn’t think you were actually into it, but—uhh, shit.” Parse’s gaze drops to the floor. “Listen, I’m sorry—I can’t.”

Eric’s heart falls. “Ahh, sorry, never mind.” His voice comes out as an embarrassed whisper. Of _course_ Parse can’t.

“Look—“ Parse starts, then sighs. “If I’d met you somewhere else, like in a club or something, I might’ve said yes. But in this situation, it’s _still_ ridiculously inappropriate, and I wouldn’t feel right. Sorry.” He actually looks regretful.

Eric rests his head on his knees and lets his eyes drift shut. He’s surprised at how let down he feels; it’d been nice, just for a moment, to imagine himself as someone that cheeky guys picked up in bars. “It’s okay. Makes sense.”

“You’ve never told anyone before? That you’re—gay?” Parse asks quietly.

Eric covers his face and nods. “I’m from Georgia,” he mumbles. “People ain’t so accepting in my hometown.”

Parse whistles. “Shit, that sucks. Shoulda guessed from the accent—you’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”

“I don’t even know if I’m in Canada anymore, so who knows?” Eric’s lips twist. Maybe Parse will tell him, though in Eric’s case it probably won’t help one lick.

“You’re not getting that one out of me.” Parse snorts. “Nice try, though.”

“Thanks.” Eric raises his head to see Parse giving him an odd look. “What?”

“You said you were eighteen?”

“Mhmm?”

Parse groans. “Fuck, you’re so _young_.” He means _too young to die_ , maybe _._ Wishful thinking, of course, but Eric thinks it nonetheless.

He looks Parse up and down. “You’re not that old, yourself.”

“Twenty-three,” Parse says, and Eric finds himself doing the mental subtraction in his head before he can stop himself.

“Five years,” he murmurs.

“Too old for you?” Parse smirks.

Eric’s face heats. “I thought you were gonna stop flirting with me.”

“Oops.” Parse gives him a faux-innocent look, but then shakes his head. “Nah, I’ll stop if you want.”

“You don’t have to.” Eric’s voice comes out all in a rush.

Parse stares at him contemplatively. “You know we can’t do anything? Like, legit, nothing can happen from this.”

“Yeah, I know.” Eric bites his lip.

“And I might have to—you know.” Parse takes a finger and draws a line across his own neck.

Eric is _really_ trying not to think about that. “I—I know. Sorry. It’s just—it’s kinda nice to feel, like. I dunno. Attractive.” He flushes so hard he swears he’s probably glowing.

“You are attractive,” Parse murmurs.

Eric feels a flash of heat wash over his body, feels it tighten around his throat and make his heartbeat quicken. “Thanks,” he whispers, not knowing what else to say.

“Do you not think you are?” Parse leans into him just the slightest bit so that their shoulders touch, and Eric nearly chokes.

“I, um. I’m not like, super muscle-y or anything? I dunno. I figure skate, so I always got made fun of for being, well. Feminine.”

“Nothing wrong with any of that.” Parse shrugs. “You know—a friend of mine would probably be really into you,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. He has an odd glint in his eyes as he says it; Eric can’t tell at all what he’s thinking.

“A friend of yours? Not you?” he asks coyly.

“I thought we’d already established that.” Parse grins at him, and never in his life has Eric wanted to kiss someone more than he wants to kiss Parse right now.

But he can’t.

Fuck. He can’t. Because Parse is not someone he should be kissing.

Parse is literally going to kill him.

He feels the happiness drain out of his limbs, leaving him only with the shakiness of panic, but—then Parse puts his hand on Eric’s arm. “Hey. You okay?”

“N-no,” Eric chokes out truthfully.

Parse gives him a tormented look. “I’m so sorry.”

Eric shudders. He’s got so many questions flying through his head now, but one of them pushes to the forefront. “W-when?”

Averting his eyes, Parse sighs. “I’m meeting with Zimms this evening.”

Oh, _God_. Only a few hours left, then. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to keep the hysteria away. “Will it hurt?”

“Depends on who does it,” Parse says. “They won’t torture you, though. I promise.”

Eric sucks in a breath. “You mean—you’re n-not gonna?” He shivers.

Parse swallows. “I don’t know if I could, anymore,” he admits, and Eric almost wails because he’s gotten what he wanted, Parse isn’t going to kill him, but someone else _will_ and—“If it really would make you feel better, I can do it,” Parse says suddenly, his voice coming out hoarse.

Eric blinks at him. “Really?”

“Do you really want me to?” Parse stares into his eyes, looks straight through them into Eric’s soul, like he’s trying to dig his fingers in and find the meat of what makes Eric tick.

“I—I trust you,” Eric says. “That’s fucking weird, but I—trust you, I do, I trust y-you.” He’s babbling now, tears starting to leak out of his eyes, oh God—he’s going to _die_.

It happens fast—one moment Parse is staring at him in dismay, and the next Eric’s face is pressed into Parse’s chest and Parse’s arms are tight around him.

“Okay,” Parse says. And Parse has agreed to do it, Eric should stop crying now—but instead he cries harder because Parse is being so _nice_ and Eric _likes_ him and why, why did Eric have to meet him _now_ of all times?

Parse doesn’t tell him to shut up like Eric half expects him to, just holds him and rubs his back and rocks him just the slightest bit. Parse smells nice—faintly of cologne and something musky, and Eric doesn’t feel quite so alone anymore.

Eventually he stops shivering, eventually his face dries, but Parse doesn’t let go until Eric’s been lulled almost to sleep. He lets himself fall into fantasy then, and for just the briefest moment he pretends that they’re somewhere else and that maybe they’ve just gone on a date and are cuddling afterwards, and—it feels really silly, but he wants it so much it hurts.

“You hungry?” Parse asks, pulling Eric out of his thoughts, away from the border between dream and reality. He nods into Parse’s shoulder, and Parse squeezes tighter for a millisecond before pulling away.

Eric misses him already.

Parse leans down to pick up the flashlight, the light beam bouncing around the room. “I’ll get you something. No need for you to starve.”

When Eric finally gets the courage to look up at Parse’s face, Parse looks solemn.

“Thank you,” Eric says, and really means it.

“It’s nothing.” Parse waves a hand in the air. “Human decency.”

“No, I mean.” Eric licks his lips. “For making me forget for a little while.”

“Oh. Well then, I’m glad.” Parse stands, picking up the flashlight and stretching. “See you soon, cutie,” he adds with a wink.

Eric has to hold back a groan. “Right,” he says, shaking his head, and Parse leaves, the door clicking and locking behind him.

Eric buries his face in his knees. Lord, he’s gotten himself into such a mess—panic rises in his chest again, and he tamps it down, pushing it away with thoughts of being warm in someone’s arms—Parse’s arms. God.

Lord, he’d thought to take advantage of Parse’s kindness, but it turns out he’s not very good at that, because now he’s a wreck over the thought that Parse was holding him, but Parse can never hold him like _that_ because—fuck, he needs to stop thinking about that or he’s going to get upset again. So instead he closes his eyes and indulges himself, just thinks about Parse hugging him until his mind has quieted down. If he squeezes his eyes shut tightly enough, he can almost feel Parse there, warm against his shoulder.

If nothing else, he has that memory now.

xXx

Fuck. Kent closes the door to the holding room behind himself, having just given Blondie a tray of food, and then he stands in the dim hallway and resists the urge to punch something. _Fuck_. He’s so fucking frustrated with all of this because he’s never met a more innocent guy, and yet he’s going to have to—shit. _Shit_. Normally he doesn’t even do that part, but the guy had made him _promise_. Maybe he could just knock him out and then have someone else do it? But no, that would be wrong, and Kent doesn’t want to make the situation any more wrong than it has to be.

But maybe—maybe if he can get Zimms to meet him, Zimms will see. And then Kent won’t have to kill him.

And that’s a nice thought, but he knows Zimms, and he knows that Zimms would absolutely never agree to sitting and having a chat with a prisoner.

“Fuck,” he mutters, gritting his teeth as he walks down the hallway. Not to mention that Kent had basically been fucking _cuddling_ with the kid. And what the hell was that? Kent hasn’t taken to anyone that easily in years, not since—well. Zimms.

And hell, it’s not at all smiled upon to flirt with prisoners, let alone sleep with them. That’s for slimy dicks, and Kent likes to think that he’s generally not a slimy dick. But there he’d been, sitting with the guy and chatting him up like they’d met at a fucking party, calling him cute and attractive (and privately, fucking sexy), even though the guy is his captive and it’s not like Kent’s the most covetable suitor at any rate.

And it’s not like the guy has a chance anyway, because _fuck_ —Kent’s going to have to kill him.

The words circle around in his head until he’s left with the pounding of an oncoming headache. He walks into his room and flops down on his bed, burying his face in the pillow, because maybe then he can erase every image he has of the cutie in the holding cell making quips at him and shaking in his arms.

Debriefing in an hour. The guy will be dead by morning.

xXx

“You questioned the prisoner we captured?” Jack prompts, eyeing Parse. Parse has been jumpy for the whole meeting, so either something’s up or Parse had too much coffee this morning. Jack is leaning toward the former.

“What? Yeah, I did. He didn’t know anything.” Parse shrugs. “Wrong place, wrong time.”

Jack sighs. “That’s a shame,” he murmurs. He doesn’t like killing innocents as much as the next person, but leaving loose ends could jeopardize everything. “Holster, you’re up, then.” He inclines his head at Holster, who groans.

“Really? I always do it. Why don’t you make Parse do it for once?” he grumbles, leaning back and putting his feet on the table. Jack rolls his eyes. They always have this argument, and to tell the truth it’s really starting to get on his nerves.

“For the last time, Holster, he outranks—“

“Fine,” Parse cuts in sharply.

Both Jack and Holster stare at him, and Holster sits up sharply. “What? I was just kidding, dude.”

“And I’m tired of having this fucking argument,” Parse shoots back. “Look, I’ll do it. And then you’re not allowed to complain anymore, all right?”

Holster blinks. “Uh, okay.”

“That okay with you, Zimms?” Parse looks at Jack, something unreadable floating in his eyes.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Jack says. It sounds reasonable enough, and if it’ll make Holster stop arguing the matter, Jack is all for it.

Briefly, he wonders if Parse is going to be okay, but then he dismisses the thought. He knows from experience that Parse is usually less fragile than Jack assumes him to be.

“All right, moving on. Improvements?” he asks, and the mood settles as they dissect last night’s operation once more.

xXx

Eric takes one look at Parse’s face when he walks in some time later and feels a wave of nausea roll through his gut. He presses a hand to his mouth, willing himself not to vomit.

Parse has a small black briefcase in the hand opposite his flashlight. Parse’s gaze is hard. Parse is also shaking.

Eric is going to die.

Slowly, he stands, bracing himself against the wall behind him. He wishes he could go down brave. But already he’s starting to cry again, the panic is setting in and making him dizzy.

At least he’s looking Parse in the eyes, even if he’s not brave enough to acknowledge death hovering over his shoulder.

_Oh God oh God oh God oh God—_

“W-will it hurt?” he asks, his voice sounding strangled. He’s already asked that but it’s all he can think about—he doesn’t want the last thing he remembers to be pain. The fear is bad enough, fuck, oh God.

“No.” Parse shakes his head, voice wooden, and walks stiffly toward him. “I’m going to knock you out first, if that’s okay.”

Eric nods, and then he stuffs his knuckle in his mouth and bites down because otherwise he’s going to start babbling about how _he doesn’t want to die_ , but he’s also terrified that if he starts complaining then Parse is going to leave and someone else is going to come and do worse things and Eric isn’t getting out of this, Eric can’t escape, he’s done for, _no no no_.

“I’m so, so so-orry,” Parse’s voice cracks as he sets the briefcase down in the floor. He’s close enough now that Eric could count his freckles if he wanted to.

“Sorry doesn’t— _help_!” Eric gasps out, and he wants to curl up into a ball again but he’s not, not this time, even as Parse motions for him to sit in the chair in the middle of the room. He staggers over and sits as straight as he can and _he’s so scared_ —

It takes a long time for Parse to respond. When he does, it’s only to say, “I know,” in a broken voice. Eric looks at him in surprise and sees that Parse’s face has crumpled, even as he opens the briefcase and pulls out a syringe.

At least Eric isn’t scared of needles. It’s something he’d bragged about as a child, how he could go to the doctor’s office and not be scared like everyone else. He’d always thought that if he had a sibling, he could teach them how to be brave like Eric was—and ha, he’d thought himself brave. How funny. He’s sitting here in shambles with snot running from his nose, trying to sit up straight even though he’s shaking so hard the chair is wobbling back and forth on its one uneven leg.

“Right arm or left?” Parse says.

Eric holds out his left arm.

Parse takes his hand, squeezes it gently, and then moves his fingers up Eric’s arm, and Eric turns his face away.

He doesn’t look.


	2. Chapter 2

Eric wakes up somewhere soft and warm.

His first thought is that he’s in heaven, and that’s a lovely idea until he realizes that his left arm stings and that he’s also a bit _too_ warm. His eyes jolt open in surprise. He’s in a bed, and through the tiny window on the wall opposite him, he can see that it’s dark outside.

And there’s a person there with him, pressed up along his back. That’s why he’s too warm; the combination of the body heat and the covers has him nearly sweating.

He breathes in, and then he knows. It’s Parse. Everything smells like Parse, and Eric’s not dead, and Parse is behind him in a bed. If it weren’t for the twinge in his arm, he’d think this was a dream, because this wasn’t what was supposed to happen.

He looks down at himself, and ugh, he’s still in the same clothes he’d been wearing before and he’s sure he doesn’t smell too good either—what a great time to be sharing a bed with a cute guy. Yeah, it’s his would-be killer, but. Eric’s not dead, and so that means—Parse didn’t kill him.

_What?_

Gingerly, he rolls over to his other side. The bed’s plenty big enough for both of them, but Parse is very close, face soft with sleep and hands curled loosely between them. His hair’s a mess in the pillow, and Eric kind of wants to watch him sleep, but his desire to find out what the hell happened is much stronger. He reaches over and nudges Parse’s shoulder.

Parse’s eyes flick open in an instant. “Oh, good, you’re awake,” he mumbles.

“Obviously,” Eric responds.

Parse snorts. “Hey, I could have given you too much anesthetic or something. Trust me, being awake is a good thing.” He stretches, and the covers ride down his body, exposing more of his white t-shirt and the edge of his boxers. Eric pointedly doesn’t look.

“I’m not dead,” he nearly whispers.

Parse’s lips twist. “Yeah, about that. Sorry. I couldn’t—“ he starts, then mutely shakes his head.

“Why’re you apologizing?” Eric asks. “That’s a good thing for me, huh?”

“Yeah, but. You could still die.” Parse props his head up on one arm. “And on top of that I’m probably going to get in huge fucking trouble, but? It’s already done, so. I dunno. They might not let me do it when the time comes.”

 _When_. Not if. The hysteria returns quickly, clenching around his throat, making him want to wail except that his voice has abandoned him—fuck fuck fuck, nothing is better.

“ _Why?_ ” he mouths, because why would Parse do this if it won’t even help?

“I just—I couldn’t,” Parse says again. He’s starting to look angry. Eric is almost scared. “I put you out and then you were limp and—I dunno. God, I’m a terrible fucking kidnapper, aren’t I?”

Eric can’t speak, so he says nothing. He looks around the room instead, at the small table with its two folding chairs and the tiny kitchenette crammed in next to a messy desk. It might even be cozy if there were anything at all on the walls, but Eric sees nothing, not even pictures—nothing to distract him from the situation he’s trapped in.

“Where am I?” he finally asks.

“My room." Parse's lips twist. "I didn’t really have a better place to hide you. If I could’ve, I’d have taken you away from all of us entirely, but. I wouldn’t’ve been able to keep an eye on you then, would I?”

Eric raises an eyebrow. “You _could_ just let me go free, you know.”

“Not gonna happen,” Parse says immediately, rolling his eyes, and Eric hadn’t thought so but it’d been worth the shot. “But—anyway. I brought you here and I thought about things, and—don’t get your hopes up, but. I might have a plan.”

Hope jumps in Eric’s heart. “A plan?”

“Please don’t look so happy.” Parse averts his eyes, guilt lingering in his frame, and Eric tries his best to subdue his expression.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

Parse shakes his head. “It’s all right. But—you’re really not going to like it.”

“Oh,” Eric says, and suddenly he’s anxious.

“You can’t go back into the world, knowing what you know as a civilian,” Parse says, sighing. “But maybe—if we can get you trained, we might be able to have you become one of us.”

It takes a second for Eric to unscramble the meaning in Parse’s words. He sits up, heart leaping with fear. “You mean—like. A killer?”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t use that word, but yeah.” Parse sits up too, face unreadable. “I told you that you weren’t gonna like it.”

Eric stares down at the blanket, thoughts churning beneath his skull. “And there’s no other way?”

Parse shakes his head. “For you to stay alive? No.”

Eric thinks and thinks and then his breathing is getting faster and he feels nauseated—he presses a hand to his mouth, shaking his head, feeling trembly and absolutely filled with despair.

“Hey—shh, shh, breathe, it’s okay,” Parse murmurs, his brow furrowed. “Here, breathe with me.”

He starts exaggerating his breaths so that Eric can follow, and Eric does his best to cling on, to match the rise and fall of Parse’s chest. Slowly, the nausea fades, though he keeps breathing with Parse until he’s sure it’s gone. He feels drained, exhausted but not sleepy, and he kind of wants to hug Parse but he’s not sure Parse would take kindly to that.

But as if he’s read his mind, Parse says, “Want a hug?” and Eric has never been so happy to hear those words. He relaxes forward into Parse, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to associate this smell with comfort for the rest of his short life.

Because—“I d-don’t think I can,” he murmurs shakily into Parse’s shoulder.

“Think about it for a little?” Parse asks. “Please, I—shit, I know this is a lot, but I really don’t want you to die.” He sounds sincere, and Eric—

Well, fuck. Eric kind of still wants to kiss him. That’s almost as devastating as finding out he has to kill or be killed—except this time it’s his heart lurching instead of his stomach.

Slowly, he pulls away, biting his lip. He wonders if Parse feels this too, because when he gets the courage to look up into his eyes, Parse looks completely transfixed.

But that could well just be Eric’s imagination.

He swallows. “I’ll think about it,” he says quietly.

And Parse beams at him. “Let me know, okay?”

Eric nods slowly. His body still feels like it’s filled with lead. Slowly, the happiness drains out of Parse’s face.

“I have something to apologize for,” Parse says quietly, and Eric blinks at him because he can think of a number of things. “I—shouldn’t have hit on you yesterday.” His face is blank.

Eric’s heart freezes. “Um—why?”

“It was—well, for one it was kinda dick-ish of me. But mostly because—I didn’t think that I was gonna be seeing you for more than that day, and—I’m afraid I might’ve gotten your hopes up. But—“ He sighs, looking like the words aren’t coming easily. “But I kind of can’t date anyone right now, is all.”

“Oh,” Eric says. The dismissal hurts more than he’d thought it would. “I’m sorry.” He crumples, and maybe if he lies down he’ll feel better so he does it, pressing his face into the pillow.

“I’m sorry too,” Parse says, voice strained. “But, like. I meant all of it, you know. You’re _really_ attractive, so please don’t think it’s about that, because it’s not. I’m just—I can’t really look for something like that right now.”

Eric nods into the pillow, furiously trying to remind himself that he basically knows nothing at all about Parse, that Parse had been about to _kill_ him, and that it’s basically ridiculous to feel so disappointed about it all.

Parse is silent for a few minutes, though Eric pretends not to hear Parse’s quiet, shuddery sigh as he shifts against the pillows. “Hey,” Parse finally speaks up, “Hungry?”

“Uh,” Eric says, because he feels slightly queasy in a way that offers to get worse if he puts food anywhere near his mouth. “Not at the moment.”

“Hah, I thought so.” Parse chuckles. “Anesthetic’s a bitch on stomachs. It’ll wear off, just let me know when you need food. You wanna shower, then?”

“God, please.” Eric pushes away his feelings of depression the best he can, turning his head so he can eye Parse’s face.

“All right, we can probably make that happen, but—uh. You’re gonna have to come with me. I share a bathroom down the hall, and we can’t really have you walking around by yourself.”

“Okay,” Eric says, because that doesn’t sound too bad.

Until, that is, they actually arrive at the bathroom, Parse darting through the hallway to check ahead before they go. It looks more like the dorm bathrooms from when Eric had gone to freshman orientation than anything; a few sinks lining the wall opposite toilet stalls and a shower room further down.

“Now,” Parse says, “We got up stupid early, so no one’s gonna be in here right now. You can use the toilet and stuff because that’ll be fast enough, but—God, okay.” He scrubs a hand over his face, looking annoyed. “I’d really feel safer if you came in the shower stall with me? That’s like, not a come-on, I promise. Just—you can’t get caught.”

Eric’s stomach feels like it turns to stone, worse than the time he’d accidentally taken a bite of a moldy bagel. “Um,” he says, flushing brightly. He understands the need for secrecy, but _also_ —

“I’m not going to look or anything,” Parse adds hurriedly. “Promise.”

Eric swallows back his nervousness, because God, it doesn’t seem like there’s any way to get around this and he _really_ needs a shower—so he gives a reluctant nod and says, “Um, okay.”

“Sorry. Really,” Parse says again, then heads off to the showers.

Eric quickly uses the bathroom before finding Parse, who’s standing outside the far stall. There’s a small bench outside the shower curtain, on which Parse has put towels and changes of clothes for both of them, but the inside of the shower is definitely going to be a tight squeeze.

“Hey, if you want—” Parse strips out of his shirt, and Eric pointedly looks away. “You could shower and I could wait out here? I might have to jump in real quick if it sounds like someone’s coming in, though.”

Parse leans in to turn the water on, and Eric briefly weighs the suggestion in his mind. Then he shakes his head. If they have to do this _now_ then chances are they’re going to have to do it every time Eric showers. He might as well just bite the bullet. “Thanks, but. We probably shouldn’t take chances?”

Parse raises his eyebrows, surprised approval evident in his face. “All right,” he says, then he turns in the opposite direction. “Go ahead and get in, then.”

Eric strips down as fast as he can without falling over before stepping into the shower—and oh, the spray feels like heaven on his skin. He’s so pleased to finally be washing all the grime off of his body that he nearly doesn’t register when Parse gets in—it’s not until Parse nudges his shoulder, holding a bottle of shampoo and looking carefully in the opposite direction, that Eric realizes how _close_ they are.

“Thanks,” Eric murmurs, and then—fuck, his eyes slide over Parse’s body without his permission.

Oh, hell. Parse is _really_ attractive, well-muscled and fit—and Eric gets a glimpse of his ass too, which is unfairly, ridiculously gorgeous, and _that_ makes him blush more horribly than anything else. Lord. He dumps a glob of shampoo into his hand and passes the bottle back without another word, hoping Parse hasn’t noticed the redness on his cheeks.

He stares at the wall as he washes his hair, praying that against all odds he won’t get an erection—at least his nervousness is useful in that regard. As he rinses his hair, his eyes flick over to Parse again, who is still firmly not-looking.

“Um—are you cold? Sorry,” Eric says, realizing that Parse hasn’t even gotten fully wet yet.

“Nah, it’s all right,” Parse says, but Eric steps aside anyway so he can get under the spray. Parse does a funny maneuver so he can back into the water without looking at Eric, and Eric squints up at his face.

“You don’t hafta try so hard to look away? It’s okay if it’s an accident,” he says quietly.

Parse chuckles slightly. “I really don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You’re not! I mean, you’re not leering or anythin’, so—“

The bathroom door opens with a squeak. Quick as a flash, Parse slips a hand over Eric’s mouth, effectively cutting off his voice.

“Who the hell’s in the shower this fucking early?” a tired but good-natured voice calls. Eric’s pulse ratchets up, beating heavy in his lips against Parse’s palm, and he’s immediately glad they hadn’t used two separate showers or tried anything even riskier.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Parse calls back, brow furrowed with stress.

“Oh,” the voice says. “You know, Parser, you didn’t have to do what you did yesterday. I could’ve taken care—“

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” Parse grumbles.

The voice pauses, then the sound of a toilet flushing rings over the noise of the shower. “Suit yourself, bro.”

And Eric knows that voice. It’s one of the unnamed voices in his head, the second of his kidnappers. God, they’re talking about _him_ , aren’t they?

The door squeaks again, and Parse lets Eric go almost as fast as he’d grabbed him. “Shit, sorry about that. That was Holster.” His lips twist as he turns away. “Good dude, but easily suspicious.”

“It’s okay,” Eric says honestly, because he’s well aware that he probably would’ve kept running his mouth if Parse hadn’t grabbed him. “Was he—supposed to do it?” To kill Eric, instead of Parse?

Parse sighs. “Yeah. I outrank the rest of the guys on the hall, so usually one of them gets this kind of dirty work, but.” He shrugs, picking up the soap. Eric’s stopped trying so hard to avert his eyes, at least from Parse’s face, because it’s pretty much a lost cause at this point.

“Do you think anyone suspects anything? Since you don’t normally do this kinda thing?” Eric chews his lip.

“Let’s hope not,” Parse says as he slicks up his own back.

They finish washing in silence.

Eric feels so glad to finally be clean when they return to the room that he doesn’t even care that Parse’s shorts and t-shirt are a size too big for him. He perches on Parse’s bed, legs drawn up, and watches Parse as he squints at the titles on a small bookshelf that hangs over his desk. “I know you haven’t agreed, but—while you’re thinking on it, you could do some reading?” Parse suggests carefully.

Oh, right. The dying thing. “You’re gonna make a killer out of me whether I want it or not, aren’t ya?” Eric mutters, his stomach flipping.

“If there was any other fucking way, you don’t think I would try?” Parse shoots back. He sounds caught between annoyance and desperation, and after a moment, he huffs a sigh and leans a hand on his desk. “Sorry. But like, seriously.”

Eric hates himself a little bit for squeezing his eyes shut and saying, “Fine.”

Parse is silent for long enough that Eric blinks up at him after a few long moments. Parse is staring at him. “Wait—the reading, or—?”

“Don’t really have much of a choice about joining ya or not, do I?” Eric wraps his arms around himself, feeling a sudden flash of cold even though the room is warm.

“Oh, thank _God_ ,” Parse says, taking two steps toward Eric before suddenly stopping himself. _He was about to hug_ _me_ , Eric thinks, and hugging would be better than sitting here all cold by himself, so Eric sits up on his knees and reaches out.

Parse hesitates, then smiles softly, stepping forward and pulling Eric into his arms. The warmth nearly makes up for the coldness Eric feels for selling his soul, for trading an unknown number of lives for his own, and that’s if this actually _works_.

“I’ve got to stop touching you,” Parse mumbles, but he doesn’t let go and neither does Eric.

“Hugging is okay, right?” Eric asks, because hugs from Parse are the only things that are keeping him sane right now.

Parse snorts. “They’re—okay, I guess. I just—fuck, I shouldn’t.” He makes as if to pull away, and Eric’s embarrassed that his first reaction is to cling harder.

And then he sees the guilt on Parse’s face, and a realization hits him like a brick. “Are—are you dating someone?”

“What?” Parse says, half in Eric’s arms and half not. Somehow he looks even more tormented than he had a moment ago. “I—no. I’m not.”

“Okay,” Eric says, because that’s a weight off of his shoulders.

“Well,” Parse says, fingers sliding down to grip Eric’s elbows, and Eric steels himself. “I’m not _dating_ someone, but—there is someone—ah, fuck it. We’re sleeping together.”

Oh. And that makes a lot more sense. “Sorry,” Eric says, scooting away. His neck flushes hot with shame.

“Don’t feel bad. It’s really my fault, for hitting on you in the first place, yeah?” Parse says ruefully. “I just don’t know—he and I—I mean, he’s said he’s fine with me sleeping with other people, but I still feel kinda weird about it.”

“I understand.” Eric looks away, and he does, really. He makes a vow to himself to try his best to not touch Parse, because of all the things he’s never wanted to be, a relationship-wrecker is second on the list. (A killer is first. Looks like he’s striking that list down one-by-one, almost entirely on accident. God.)

“Thanks.” Parse smiles at him. “You’re really something, all right?”

Eric flushes. “T-thanks.”

“Shit. Okay, so I’m really bad at not-flirting, if you haven’t guessed that by now.” Parse sits heavily on the bed next to him. “So if I’m overstepping, you can tell me. I don’t wanna make this any harder on either of us.”

“I can try,” Eric says, swallowing against the dryness in his throat.

Parse nods, filling the air with a moment of silence, before speaking up. “Let’s get some food in you. Then we can see what you’ve got, yeah?”

Eric takes a moment to make sure that his stomach is no longer protesting the thought of eating before he nods.

xXx

Kent is pretty sure he’s on a vast, slippery slope to hell. Of course, he’d been on that slope for a very long time—years, probably. But today he’s slipped down a good couple of feet, because today he’d woken up with this cutie in his bed, then fucking _showered_ with him, and now he’s feeling so sexually frustrated he might burst because there is nothing at all that would make it right for him to touch the guy.

He’ll allow hugging. That’s it. Because cuddling is probably his favorite thing in the world, and hugging is just an extension of that, right? Bros hug all the time. Hell, Ransom and Holster down the hall are all over each other daily, although Kent suspects along with just about everyone else on his floor that they’re more than just roommates.

Kent and—and fuck it, he doesn’t even have a name to put with his face. Ar-something. Aaron? Ari? He laughs to himself—neither of those fits him at all.

He and Blondie take their time eating, because Kent has nowhere to be and he’s pretty sure the dude’s stomach is still fucked up from the anesthetic. He’d tried his best to make something nutritious, but his cabinet is honestly pretty lacking—he’d scrounged up some noodles and pasta sauce, along with some canned peas and carrots, but Blondie doesn’t seem too bothered by the strange mix in the small portion Kent had given him. Instead, he chatters all through the meal, telling Kent stories about baking, of all things. Kent finds he’s actually enjoying hearing him talk. It’s a nice change from Zimms’ gruffness, at least.

The cutie looks up—and fuck it, not having a name for him is really dumb.

“Okay, since you’ve basically said yes to this all—we’re getting you a nickname,” Kent blurts out.

Cutie stops mid-rant about some jam-argument that Kent had lost the plot of three minutes ago, quirking an eyebrow. “What’ve you been calling me?”

Kent flushes. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Riiight. It’s not still ‘that cutie from last night’, is it?”

“No,” Kent rolls his eyes. “Blondie. That kid. And—fine, sometimes cutie. Can we move on?” And maybe he’d said it just to see the resultant blush that burns under the guy’s freckles, but self-control has never really been Kent’s strong suit when it comes to flirting with friends. Friends. That’s _it_. Really.

“So—what kind of nickname?” Blondie looks down at his plate, empty except for the peas, and Kent makes a mental note not to bother with those next time. He reaches forward and tugs the plate over his side, picking up his own fork again and considering the question.

Usually they rotate the alphabet for nicknames, just to keep things orderly—he thinks they’ve wrapped around to ‘b’ at this point. Blondie might work, except that’s kind of vague and could refer to multiple people in a room, Kent himself included. Hmm—“Maybe like, Bitty? Cuz you’re kinda small?”

“I ain’t that short,” Cutie defends himself, but a smile pricks at his lips nonetheless. “That might be okay?”

“Okay,” Kent grins at him. “Bitty.”

“Bitty,” Bitty says it aloud to himself, smiling back with a small shake of the head. “Lord, this is so strange. I’m being renamed for goodness’ sake.”

“That okay?” Kent asks him, shoveling a forkful of peas into his mouth.

“Never really liked my name anyway.” Bitty shrugs. “It’s a nice change.”

“That’s settled then.” Kent nods firmly. He finishes Bitty’s peas, and then he stands, motioning toward the center of the room. “Would you mind coming over here?”

“Sure,” Bitty says, pushing back his chair as he stands and walks over in front of Kent. He looks steady, which is a good sign—Kent had been a little worried for his health, what with the beating he’d taken a couple of nights ago. “What are we doing?”

“I’m gonna try to evaluate where you’re at skill-wise,” Kent explains, inspecting Bitty’s body. He’d caught a brief glimpse in the shower, even though he’d tried his hardest not to, and it’d been enough to tell him that Bitty has a good amount of muscle for someone with as slight a frame as he has. “You said you figure skate, right?”

“Mhmm.” Bitty nods. “Is that—helpful?”

“Maybe,” Kent says.

Casually, he pulls back his arm and goes in for a punch. He’d intended to stop his fist inches from Bitty’s face, but Bitty spins out and away before Kent can even get that close—“Jesus, Parse, what the hell!”

Kent’s grudgingly impressed. “You’re really fucking fast,” he admits—maybe even faster than Kent, which kinda rubs up against his ego the wrong way. Ah, well—if that means that Bitty actually has a chance at staying alive, Kent will take it.

“Thanks?” Bitty says, eyeing him distrustfully from halfway across the room. He looks scared.

Kent sobers. “Sorry I didn’t warn you. Wanted to test your reflexes.”

“Consider them tested, then,” Bitty mutters hotly.

Well, that’s definitely something they’re gonna have to work on. Being fast is one thing, but if Bitty is so afraid of being hit that he flees like he had just now, his speed isn’t going to be of much use.

“Come back? I won’t hit you again,” Kent tells him.

Bitty sighs, obviously trying to tamp down his discomfort—and Kent bets there’s definitely a story there but he’s not going to ask—and walks over again. “So?”

“Hmm,” Kent hums. “You’re probably pretty flexible, right?”

Bitty quirks an eyebrow at him, puts his arms out to his sides, and sinks into a split. “Just a little,” he says with a shrug.

“Impressive.” Kent gives him a grin as Bitty stands up again. “Huh. Fast and bendy—probably would be better to train you on smaller weapons. We want to make sure you can move around easily.”

Bitty wrinkles his nose at the word ‘weapons’. “Couldn’t I just not—hurt people at all?” His lips twist as he asks.

“Unfortunately, there aren’t a lot of positions that don’t involve fighting,” Kent tells him. “I wish I could tell you differently, but unless you’re literally a strategic genius or something, it’s pretty doubtful. Unless—how are you with blood?”

“Not good.” Bitty shakes his head, looking down at his hands—and right, he’d skinned them when he’d fell. Kent had gone through the effort of rinsing the wounds before putting Bitty in holding, because infection is a bitch even if you’re not alive for most of it.

“Damn. We can’t have you on medical duties then.”

“Thought so.” Bitty sighs, shoulders slumping. Kent is very, very tempted to hug him again, but—he should probably cut down on the hugging, because he’s already starting to get too fucking attached.

“Well—anyway,” Kent says, and his palms are tingling now because he had kinda really wanted to hug him, damnit. He turns away to give himself something to do, picking up the books he’d set aside on his desk and searching his shelf so he can add another to the pile—an introductory book on knife-wielding. “Here.” He hands the small stack to Bitty. “Reading these will help a lot, I think. I have a knife somewhere that I can lend you for practice, but you’ll have to be careful. Oh, and if you’ve got a workout routine, it might be good to get back into that.”

Bitty inspects the books, eyes skimming over the synopses on the backs of the covers. “Most of my workouts tend to involve ice, you know,” he points out, perching on the edge of Kent’s bed.

Kent laughs. “We don’t have any of that here, sorry.” He shrugs, stepping back to sit at his desk. “You’ll have to make do.”

Bitty sighs. “I figured. So—what are we gonna do once we get me all trained up?”

“I, uh—haven’t really gotten that far?” Kent tries for a smile, and Bitty looks three seconds away from an eyeroll so he hurriedly adds, “I’ll probably try and let someone else know what’s going on, though. Maybe start telling people slowly?”

“Like Zimms?” Bitty asks him.

Kent nearly flinches just thinking about it. “Oh fuck no,” he snorts, shaking his head. “He would be probably the worst person to tell. He’s very no-nonsense, if you haven’t figured that out already—he’s one of the guys who was with me when we picked you up, I dunno if you remember.”

Bitty looks like he’s thinking on it. “The one who told y’all to get rid of my phone?” He wrinkles his nose bitterly.

Wincing, Kent nods. “Sorry about that.”

“I’m gonna be so bored.” Bitty groans, slumping sideways on the bed. “This Zimms guy seems kinda like a hard-ass.”

“Better bored than dead,” Kent grumbles, because sure, yeah, Zimms _is_ a hard-ass but Kent kind of hates having it pointed out to him. But then Bitty makes a little surprised noise and Kent sees that his face has gone all pale, and then Kent feels bad—“Sorry,” he mutters immediately.

Bitty gives him a look. “Whatever happened to my wallet, anyway?”

“I burned it. Dumped it in the water along with your phone.”

“Oh. Okay,” Bitty says. He sounds absolutely exhausted.

Kent gestures at where Bitty’s lying. “You should take a nap, get your strength back up. I’ve got some errands to run anyway.”

Bitty agrees gratefully. Kent had lied—he doesn’t really have much to do so soon after a mission, but he figures he should let Bitty get some uninterrupted sleep.

His eyes linger over where Bitty’s tucked himself into bed for long enough that he has to force himself to actually leave, and then he wanders the hallways kind of aimlessly because the only person he really wants to talk to is Zimms—which is a fucking terrible idea, seeing as Kent has an illicit captive sleeping in his bed. Kent likes to think he’s good at lying, but not with Zimms. Never with Zimms. He knows Kent too well, and that’s part of why they make such a great team—they know each other’s patterns like the back of their hands.

Which is why, when he inevitably runs into Zimms a few days later, his pulse nearly skyrockets.

Kent and Bitty have fallen surprisingly easily into a daily routine. Kent wakes up earlier than normal so he can take Bitty to shower with him, although that’s still really fucking miserable in regard to his libido—Kent’s not sure he’ll ever be entirely immune to the fact that there’s a naked, fucking adorable guy in such a tight space with him. Either Bitty doesn’t notice Kent’s untimely erections, or he’s just being polite and not saying anything about it, but Kent keeps his eyes away from Bitty until Bitty has clothes on and that seems to help at least a little.

After showering, they go back to the room and eat breakfast. Bitty takes over for that part almost immediately—and okay, so Kent’s eggs the second day had been a little rubbery, but they weren’t _terrible_. However, it’s kind of nice to have someone else cooking for him, so he holds off on grumbling about it especially after taking his first bite of Bitty’s French toast—Kent hadn’t even known he’d had cinnamon in his tiny cabinet, and shit, this boy can cook.

Bitty had mumbled something about not being very good at staying focused while studying when he’d first started reading the books Kent had given him—the one on knife-wielding, as well as two _Aces Inc_. manuals filled with rules and protocols. But as far as Kent’s been able to tell, Bitty’s had his nose in a book almost every waking moment since then, studying like his life depends on it.

And all right, it kind of does, so Kent honestly shouldn’t be surprised about that.

Bitty’s busy reading his books every time Kent pops into his room to check on him—at this rate, he’ll be done soon, and Kent hopes he’s retained most of the information. It leaves Bitty obviously worn by the end of the day when Kent gets back from training (or maybe the tiredness is left-over from Bitty’s stint in solitary—Kent’s not really sure. He’s trying his best not to think about the hours Bitty had been left in there alone, because that inevitably leads to thinking about Bitty’s ticking death sentence that Kent’s trying to shove away one day at a time).

And so a few days later when Zimms walks into the gym right at the start of Kent’s workout, Kent’s almost certain Zimms can read every little thing in his eyes, can see that Kent had woken up this morning curled around Bitty entirely on accident, can see that he’d _liked_ it, far more than he should have. He briefly considers just leaving the gym, but that would be even more of a red flag than just sticking it out. So he keeps his head down, focuses on his workout, heart racing even though he’s barely moved on from his fucking warm-up.

He’s doing his cool-down when Zimms comes up to him, and oh, shit. Kent had been doing too good of a job of blocking out the room, it seems, because the group of guys from Kent’s hall that had been in here have left and now, fuck, he’s alone with Zimms. Well, here goes nothing.

“Hey… look at you,” he sinks down into a stretch and offers Zimms a smile, because he might have a fucking huge secret but that doesn’t mean that Zimms isn’t still—well, lots of things. His best friend. His confidant. The only giant dork that’s willing to wade through all of Kent’s shit on a regular basis in order to hang out with him.

“Hey.” The edges of Zimms’ lips twitch in a way that tells Kent he’s trying not to smile. “Mind if I stretch with you?”

“Knock yourself out,” Kent says, gesturing to the floor beside him.

They’re quiet for a while, because Zimms is as serious about stretching as he is about everything else he does, but eventually Zimms speaks up. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Have I?” Kent says, aiming for nonchalance.

“Yes,” Zimms says, tone making it clear that means he’s not fucking around.

Kent sits up, meeting Zimms’ eyes, trying to read what he’s thinking. He’s not entirely sure. “All right. Maybe a little bit.” He looks off to the side.

“A lot ‘bit’. You didn’t meet me for dinner last night,” Zimms says, and shit, somehow Kent had _completely_ forgotten about their weekly dinner—he’d come back from training and Bitty had been frying something on the stove, and he’d managed to tie one of Kent’s larger t-shirts like an apron around him in a way that was entirely too charming. Kent had sat down and chatted with Bitty and let Bitty feed him, and it’d been kind of ridiculously fucking domestic—and now Zimms is staring at him, looking hurt.

Fuck. Kent doesn’t really have an excuse lined up for that, and it’s his own damn fault. “Sorry, Zimms…”

Zimms sighs and lowers his voice, changing positions. “It’s okay. Um—so Holster mentioned something in passing about you not sleeping well, and I don’t know why I didn’t see it earlier but I’m sure that witness from over the weekend must’ve reminded you of—things. I should’ve noticed, maybe said something. Just—take care of yourself, all right?” He sounds guilty.

Kent stares at him, because—all right, yeah, maybe Zimms is _right_ —fuck. Images flash through his head that he hasn’t drudged up in months, flashes of being locked in a cold room, the sound of gunshots, his father— _Dad_ —

Kent hadn’t entirely realized just how much seeing Bitty curled up in that room had reminded Kent of himself.

“Thought so,” Zimms murmurs, breaking Kent out of his thoughts. Zimms pulls himself into a cross-legged position across from Kent, leaning forward. “I know I’m not the best person to talk to all the time, but—you can talk to me if you ever need to. You know that, right?” The blue in his eyes is sharp and genuine.

“Yeah,” Kent says, chest tightening with emotion. Fuck, he hates feeling vulnerable, but sometimes he forgets that Zimms knows everything about him, knows just how often Kent used to wake up from nightmares when they were younger, knows all of the fears and insecurities that he tries so hard to hide from everyone else. He sighs. “You’re not a bad friend, all right, Zimms?” He knows that Zimms tends to worry about not being there for Kent, even though he’s basically the _only_ one there. “I just—I don’t really wanna talk about it. But—if I ever do, you’ll be the first to know,” he promises, smiling weakly.

“Okay,” Zimms nods, because of all people, he certainly knows when to leave a topic alone. Kent’s grateful for that, both because he really _doesn’t_ want to talk about it (or even think about it) and because it’s honestly a much better excuse for his shiftiness than he could’ve come up with on his own.

They stand, and Kent goes in for a hand-clasp but Zimms catches him in an unexpected hug, his arms coming around Kent in a way that makes him feel soft and warm, makes him want to spill all of his secrets into Zimms’ neck even though he knows all too well that doing so would destroy him.

“Zimms,” Kent whines slightly when Zimms doesn’t let go—he complains even though he likes this, loves it even, because he can feel his lips loosening every moment that he’s in Zimms’ arms.

“What?” Zimms finally pulls back, a twinkle in his eye, and Kent knows they’re all right.

“You’re gonna make me wanna follow you to bed,” Kent mutters, waggling his eyebrows and grinning when Zimms flushes.

“ _Parse_.”

“What? It’s true.” Kent picks up the small towel he’d brought with him, wiping the sweat off of his brow. He’s glad to have changed the conversation, though he’s sure that if he steps out of line again, Zimms is going to notice.

Zimms walks by him, shoving him lightly in the shoulder as he walks to the door. “I wouldn’t say no,” he murmurs so quietly that Kent almost doesn’t catch it.

Ah, shit. Kent’s been horny as fuck for the last few days, and the invitation is almost too tempting to pass up.

But then he thinks of Bitty, sitting alone in Kent’s room, maybe with dinner already made. He thinks about how vulnerable he sometimes gets after sex, and how dangerous that vulnerability is right now—and God, he has to say no. “Maybe—not tonight,” he says, feeling torn as he follows Zimms out the gym door because he really, really wants to.

But he can’t.

“That’s all right.” Zimms waves it off, and if he’s letting it go because he thinks Kent’s too caught up in the past right now, Kent’s not going to say anything to alert him otherwise.

The night air is cool on Kent’s skin as they pass the training facility, heading toward the residential building. They take the elevator up, and Zimms bids him farewell when they reach his floor with a soft kiss to his temple. _God_.

Kent’s skin burns where Zimms’ lips had been, all the way down the hallway, and damnit—he has to try his best not to read too much into it. It’s not like it _means_ anything, this amorphous thing between them that they’re obstinately not talking about. Zimms always unsettles him, doesn’t he? Usually in the best way, but sometimes in the worst—somehow he always seems to dig his fingers under Kent’s skin, and then he goes and does something like kissing him on the temple and Kent basically melts.

He does his best to calm himself before he unlocks his door and walks into the room. Bitty’s sitting at his small table, book in front of him next to a bowl of something that looks like soup, and Kent’s stomach grumbles.

“Hungry?” Bitty’s lips quirk.

“Yeah,” Kent says, tossing his sweaty towel in the laundry. He kind of needs a shower, but the thought of food is too tempting to pass up.

“Well, if you’re nice to me, I might just let ya have some,” Bitty drawls, looking back down at his book.

It hits Kent then just how used he is already to coming home to Bitty, to seeing him in his room, nose in one of Kent’s books. And maybe he’s still vulnerable from his encounter with Zimms, but he can’t help but walk over and wrap his arms around Bitty’s shoulders.

“Hmm?” Bitty’s head perks up—they haven’t purposely touched since the day Bitty had agreed to train with him.

“I’m being nice,” Kent tries to joke, but it accidentally comes out much softer than he means it to, and fuck—he pulls away, face feeling hot, and busies himself by heading over to the kitchenette and investigating the pot of soup on the stove.

“Sure,” Bitty mumbles. Kent looks over at him, and Bitty’s tucked his face back into his book but his ears are bright red. Kent feels a little unsteady. Shit, he really had meant to stop flirting with him, but there’s something about him that makes Kent want to stay near him, to share leisurely touches and joke around like nothing’s wrong.

And then the guilt starts spiraling in his head, starts burning right in the spot where Zimms’ lips had touched his face. He _shouldn’t_ be touching Bitty, shouldn’t be thinking things about how nice it is to be spending his spare time around him. Not to mention he’s worried as fuck that Zimms is going to find out that Bitty’s still alive. That weeks from now, Kent is going to come back to a cold, empty room—because Bitty will be dead.

The thought makes his chest feel too fucking tight, so he stops thinking about it and finds a bowl for his soup.

xXx

It had been an interesting change, disassociating himself from his name. He used to be Eric, but now there’s a good chance he’ll never be allowed to be Eric again. He’s Bitty now. And that’s okay—‘Eric’ reminds him too much of jeering classmates and being stuffed into the janitor’s closet anyway. He’s glad to give it up.

And he likes ‘Bitty’, likes the way Parse says it like it’s a private joke between them. It makes him feel warm inside, feeds the flames of the quiet crush that he can’t deny anymore. Lord, he wishes he didn’t have that crush, because being around Parse and sleeping next to him and showering with him would be a lot easier if he didn’t have to worry about flirting. But Parse has been keeping his distance and Bitty has no choice but to follow suit.

Bitty’s lying on the bed, reading the final chapter of one of the rulebooks Parse had lent him when the door to the room unlocks. Parse walks in, only this time he has someone following behind him, and Bitty sits up in alarm.

“You won’t tell anyone, right?” Parse is saying.

“It depends on—oh, shit,” the girl says, catching sight of Bitty as she walks further into the room. The door shuts behind them, and the three look at each other in heavy silence before the girl speaks up again. “Bro, you’re gonna be in so much fucking trouble.” Bitty’s briefly surprised to hear that sort of language from the girl—she’s short, and her hair is buzzed severely on one side. But the set of her eyes is kind, and Bitty already thinks he’s going to like her.

“I know,” Parse deadpans. “But—it’s already done, so.”

“Yeah, you’re right about that,” the girl nods, her eyebrows creasing as she looks Bitty up and down.

“Um. Hi?” Bitty says, marking his page and setting the book down.

“Hey.” The girl comes forward, holding out a hand. Bitty takes it, and her grip is firm as she introduces herself. “I’m Lardo. Did this guy even tell you I was coming?” She lets go of Bitty’s hand, jerking her thumb toward Parse.

“No.” Bitty shakes his head. “Would’ve been nice, though,” he adds, raising an eyebrow.

“Sorry about that—it was kind of an on-the-spot thing.” Parse grins wryly, coming over to sit next to Bitty on the bed.

“Huh. You guys could pass as cousins, honestly—he looks more like you than Holster does. Might be useful,” Lardo is looking back and forth between them now.

“Remember when I was talking about strategic geniuses? Well, you’re looking at one,” Parse tells Bitty.

Lardo flushes. “Thanks, but bribing me isn’t gonna help your case. I’m not gonna tell, but if anyone asks—I had no idea about any of this.”

“Of course,” Parse nods. “I dunno—I feel like some of the other guys might be chill with it, too.”

Crossing her arms, Lardo gives him a look. “Parse. You know no one’s opinion is gonna matter if Zimms doesn’t agree, right? He’s the only one who has a running chance of getting this approved by the Heads, and even that’s not a given.”

Parse lets out a long sigh. “I know.” He looks at Bitty for a moment, then turns back to Lardo. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have any ideas about convincing him—“

“Nope. No way,” Lardo interrupts, laughing. “I might get along with him, but that doesn’t mean I know how his head works. You’re on your own, buddy.”

“Damn,” Parse leans back on his hands. “Ah well. I tried.”

“I’m gonna head back to my room, then,” Lardo tells them. “The less time I spend around here, the better.” She turns to Bitty. “Good luck, ah—?”

“Bitty,” he fills in.

“Sweet nickname, bro. But really—good luck. Parse might be a total dork, but he’s pretty reliable. Don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

Bitty can’t help the smile on his face when he says, “Yeah. I know.”

Lardo leaves, and Parse flops back on the bed, covering his face with a hand. “Fuck, I don’t wanna tell Zimms.”

“Kind of sounds like you have to,” Bitty says, lying down next to him and carefully ensuring that they’re not touching. His heart races anyway. Damn.

“Yeahhh. Fuck,” Parse swears again, but he mostly sounds resigned instead of frustrated.

Bitty swallows. “Lardo’s not—the person you’re sleeping with, right?”

“What? No, no, of course not.” Parse laughs. “I mean, she’s cute, but I’m pretty sure Shitty would kill me if I tried to go after her—he’s had his eye on her for like a billion years.”

“Oh, okay,” Bitty nods. “I thought you’d said it was a guy, but I was just checking.”

“What?” Parse turns his head to look at Bitty, smirking. “Trying to get details out of me?”

“No,” Bitty grumbles, but his flush betrays him.

Parse laughs at that. “Sorry, but I’m not telling. Technically it’s in the rules that none of us are supposed to sleep together—not that anyone pays attention to that, cuz it’d be a madhouse if we were all trapped up in here without sex, but we try to keep it on the down low, you know?”

Bitty nods contemplatively. He’d read that in the rulebook, but it’s good to have a confirmation. “Sorry. I won’t ask, then.”

Parse waggles his eyebrows. “Now I know you’re thinking about it, though.”

Blushing hotly, Bitty leans over to flick him in the arm without thinking about it. “Stop flirting.”

“Shit. Right. Sorry,” Parse replies.

He doesn’t look all that sorry, so Bitty raises his eyebrows at him until Parse starts laughing again.

xXx

Kent steps in the shower a few days later, yawning, keeping his eyes away from Bitty as usual. Not that it helps all that much—he’s still hard, but he’s mostly stopped trying to worry about that.

Except that when he turns around to hand Bitty the soap, Bitty’s flushed and staring at him. Well, staring at his dick.

“Um. Hi,” Kent says, feeling his face heat. “Shit, sorry about that.” He turns away, willing his erection to go down as quickly as possible.

But Bitty’s not going to make it easy on him, because then he says, “It’s—that’s all right.”

Kent shakes his head. “It’s not. I shouldn’t be—“

“I mean,” Bitty cuts him off, “I’m, um, also hard?”

Kent turns his head to look at him, eyes wide. He does not look at Bitty’s dick. He honestly _wants_ to look at Bitty’s dick, but he’s not going to. Really.

“Fuck, never mind, I’m being—um. This is really embarrassing, I’m so so sorry.” Bitty turns away, covering his face. “I’ll shut up.”

“No, no, it’s not your fault.” Kent’s this close to turning his entire body toward him before he remembers, oh, right, not a good idea.

“Ugh,” Bitty makes an embarrassed groan. “It kind of is.”

“I mean—it’s a natural reaction, right?” Kent points out.

“I guess so.”

“I mean, I’ve been hard every time—yeah, all right, shutting up now.” Kent nearly claps his soapy hand over his face because what the fuck is he doing?

“You—really?”

“Uh, fuck. Yeah.”

“Oh,” Bitty says, his voice coming out strangled. “I, um. Not all the time, but—sometimes.”

“Oh,” Kent says, staring at the wall, and now he’s thinking about Bitty getting hard while standing less than two feet away from him, and—yeah, that’s not helping his erection at all. “If you wanna—take care of that, I can uh, leave?”

“That’s not really safe, is it?” Bitty muses quietly. “And besides—you should, um, be able to take care of it too?”

“Fuck,” Kent sighs, because all the blood in his body seems to be heading straight toward his groin. So he closes his eyes, trying to stave it off, except that’s a terrible idea because now he’s imagining Bitty touching himself, leaning back in the shower spray and letting out a moan—and _fuck_ , he should not be thinking these things. “Look—why don’t we just—“

“Both?” Bitty interrupts.

Kent really does turn and stare at him this time. Bitty’s flushed all the way down to his chest, and it nearly steals Kent’s voice away entirely. “I—I was gonna, um. Say we should forget it?”

“Oh, Lord. You’re right. Fuck, never mind—“

“But that’s a good idea too?” Kent says, because Bitty had looked like he was getting sad and Kent doesn’t _want_ him to be sad, and also he’s so fucking hard it hurts.

“Wait—really?” Bitty asks quietly.

“I mean—yeah.” Kent swallows. “We can just—not look.”

Slowly, Bitty nods. “Okay,” he says, voice as light as a feather.

“And we can’t make a lot of noise.”

“Okay.” Bitty nods again, and then he slowly turns around and face the shower wall.

Kent turns in the opposite direction, trying desperately not to think about how insane this is, and finally, _finally_ takes his cock in hand. He clamps his teeth shut against the moan that wants to escape his mouth, but then he hears Bitty’s quiet whimper behind him and he nearly comes right then, fuck—oh God, they’re actually doing this. The slick sound of hands over skin seems loud in his ears, even though they’re being fairly quiet, and he hasn’t jerked off in days so this feels _really_ fucking good.

Bitty whimpers again, lets out a low keen, sounding all shuddery as if he’s coming—and he may well be, Kent realizes. The little panting noises Bitty is making are devastating— _fuck_. Kent strokes himself feverishly, squeezing his eyes shut and just imagining it. He barely lasts another minute before coming all over his hand.

It takes approximately ten seconds of awkward silence before the guilt hits Kent like a fucking truck. Shit, _Zimms_. Logically, he knows Zimms has said it’s all right for Kent to be with other people, but Kent still feels like—God, like he should tell him or something.

But he can’t tell him, because Zimms doesn’t even know Bitty exists.

Kent and Bitty—they didn’t touch at all, anyway. They didn’t touch, so—maybe Kent doesn’t have to worry too much about Zimms not knowing. But still—fuck, what was he thinking?

He feels unfocused as they finish washing off. He doesn’t meet Bitty’s eyes—he can’t. He feels too raw. The silence is only punctuated by the sounds of their own wet skin and the bathroom door closing, and Kent still can’t look at Bitty.

They towel off and trudge back to his room without speaking. Kent feels like he’s being stretched, being pulled apart piece-by-piece.

xXx

The rest of that day is hard. By the time he goes to meet Zimms for their weekly dinner, the secret burning in his chest like a fiery boulder, Kent feels so lonely he’s aching from it. He’s barely said three words to Bitty all day.

He should have known right then that everything was going to go to shit.

Of fucking course, the one day he doesn’t talk to Bitty is the day that he stands outside Zimms’ door, having knocked three times already, and realizes that Zimms isn’t there.

Zimms is always on time. He’s early, if he can help it. Kent’s first thought is that maybe he’s on a mission, and Kent won’t have to tell him today after all—but no, that’s dumb. Kent would probably be well aware if Zimms was on a mission. Hell, Kent would probably be on the mission with him.

It’s times like these that he wishes they were allowed to use some sort of communication devices, even though he knows it’s risky as hell. Where the fuck is Zimms?

He’s leaning against Zimms’ door, twiddling his thumbs, when the thought hits him like an egg cracking over his skull, oozing down his spine and penetrating his limbs until he feels numb. Someone had closed the door to the bathroom earlier that morning, right before he and Bitty got out of the shower. Which means someone had come _in_ the bathroom, and Kent hadn’t noticed, and he hadn’t tried to shut himself or Bitty up.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

He’s tearing down the hallway before he can even think about it, jamming the button to the elevator—but fuck, no, that’s way too slow, so he takes the stairs down, nearly slipping on the last flight. God, Bitty, _Bitty_ —

He slows as he turns the corner near his room. Zimms is there, sitting against the wall with his head in his hands, and Kent wants to fucking cry.

“Zimms,” he says, no more than a whisper.

Zimms looks up at him, eyes dull. “What am I going to find when I walk into your room?”

Kent’s tongue is stuck in his mouth. He can’t, he _can’t_ —he shakes his head, feeling numb, feeling like he wants to do nothing more than claw his way out of here.

Bitty’s going to die. Oh, God. Bitty’s going to die.

Zimms’ lips tighten. “Really, Parse? In the shower? What, couldn’t wait until you got back to your bed to fuck him? Christ! He’s a _captive_!”

Kent shakes his head faster, no, no, _no_ —“I didn’t touch him, Zimms. Please, I didn’t touch him, I swear,” he chokes out, and it’s the truth, it really is. Not that he didn’t _want_ to, but he’ll admit anything it that takes for Bitty to _stay the fuck alive_ —“Is this—God, Zimms, you said it was _okay_ for me to sleep around.”

“I know.” Zimms grits his teeth, looking away. “This isn’t about that—he’s a _prisoner_ , Parse. You’re not supposed to be fucking captives, whether you’re sleeping with me or not. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I don’t know.” Kent shakes his head. “I don’t. Bitty is—he’s—”

“You gave him a fucking _nickname_?”

“I—yeah, but—“

“They could _kill_ you for this!” Zimms stands suddenly, looking him in the eye. “Don’t you know that? What the hell, Parse?” 

“I was thinking—we could train him, and then it would be all right—“

“Hell no! Parse, this didn’t go through _any_ of the right channels. He’s probably lying about everything he tells you just to get free. There’s no way, Parse.” Zimms glares at him.

No—no, Bitty’s not lying, Kent’s sure of it—but Zimms isn’t going to believe him, _God._ His breath is coming so heavy that he can barely speak, and then Zimms takes his card-key out and reaches for Kent’s door. “ _Don’t!_ ” Kent begs, grabbing his arm.

“You missed your chance, Parse. You missed a million fucking chances, and every second he’s breathing is a second that this whole thing could be blown straight into the media.” Zimms voice is tight, his eyes hard. He’s not going to listen.

He’s going to kill Bitty.

“No,” Kent chokes out again. He still hasn’t let go of Zimms’ arm, because if he lets go then Zimms can move, can walk into his room and squeeze all the life out of it, _fuck_ —“Let me—let me do it,” he gasps. “I promise, I’ll—I’ll do it. Just let me—let me go get my kit, I promise, you can watch me do it, but—I promised him I’d be the one to—so don’t, you can go in and talk to him, but—“

“Parse.”

“Please, Zimms, please—“

“Parse. Shut up.” Zimms reaches up and squeezes his arm.

Every muscle in Kent’s body goes tense.

Then Zimms looks away, expelling a long, harsh breath. “Go get your kit.”

“Zimms— _thank you_.”

Kent allows himself to shudder once. Then he tears himself away, back down the hallway, out of the building, and runs toward the training building.

xXx

The lock clicks open. Bitty looks up from his book, an apology on the tip of his tongue for the fiasco this morning. He’d skipped making dinner tonight because he’d known Parse would be out tonight anyway, and Bitty just didn’t feel up to it, not with the shame eating away at his chest.

But the gaze he meets on the other side of the door isn’t Parse’s. He has dark hair and blue eyes and a strong body, and his face is currently contorted with agitation. _Dear Lord_.

The man closes the door. And then he speaks, and Bitty’s stomach turns to ice, because he _knows_ that voice.

“So tell me,” Zimms says, “What exactly did you say to convince one of my best agents to fuck up like this?”

The words echo in Bitty’s brain, repeating themselves over and over. Lord, Bitty’s a fuck up. He’s Parse’s fuck up, and he’s going to die.

When Bitty doesn’t speak, Zimms pulls out the chair across from him at Parse’s small table, straddling it backwards. “Calm down,” he says gruffly. “I won’t touch you.”

Bitty tries to take a relaxing breath, but it comes out only as a gasp. “Where’s—Parse?”

“He insisted on finishing this himself,” Zimms growls. “Aren’t you lucky?”

Bitty’s heart is pounding so hard that he feels like he’s shaking to pieces. “I—asked him to. It’s my f-fault,” he gasps out, _my fault my fault_ —

Zimms rakes a hand through his hair. “I don’t really care whose fault it is, honestly. This should never have happened. I hope you know that.”

“I d-do.” Bitty forces himself to nod solemnly. He leans forward with his elbows against the table, takes a deep breath and sighs it out. Parse is coming, at least. Bitty won’t be alone.

Zimms is quiet for a moment after that, and Bitty glances furtively at him. And huh, the anger in his face has softened somewhat. Now that his expression isn’t so hard anymore, he’s really kind of handsome—which is a really dumb thing to be thinking about right now, but Bitty can’t help it. Not that any of it matters, of course. Bitty’s still never going to be kissed before he dies, let alone be kissed by _Zimms_ who quite obviously hates him. And Zimms is probably straight anyway.

Maybe Parse will kiss him before he dies. It’s a baseless daydream, but it makes something flutter in Bitty’s chest nonetheless, takes his mind off of dying—even though Bitty’s fairly sure Parse wouldn’t want to kiss him in front of Zimms. Hell, Parse doesn’t want to kiss him anyway. Parse is basically taken. The guilt in his eyes after this morning had proven how he feels about that more than anything else.

“So you were showering with him,” Zimms says suddenly, as if reading his mind, and Bitty’s face flushes red-hot.

“I—um. It was so I wouldn’t get caught,” Bitty explains quietly.

Zimms raises an eyebrow. “And was that what the sex was for, too?”

 _Oh God._ Bitty covers his face. “I—” he starts, but he doesn’t know what to say to that. Was it even sex? Bitty hadn’t thought about it that way; they hadn’t touched or even looked at each other, although Bitty can’t deny that he’d been so attracted to Parse in that moment that he’d wanted nothing more than to kiss him. “It wasn’t—he didn’t touch me,” he settles for eventually. Because Parse wouldn’t. Besides the casual flirting, Parse really has tried his best not to encourage anything, keeping a careful distance when they’re lying in bed or standing in the shower.

And oh gosh, now Zimms knows that Parse likes boys. He wonders if Zimms had known that beforehand, because he really hopes Parse didn’t accidentally get outed because of all this, oh God. That would be even worse than simply getting caught. Bitty would know for the rest of his short life that Parse’s world had been turned upside-down, and it’d basically be Bitty’s fault because he can’t keep his mouth shut, because someone overheard them in the bathroom this morning and it’s all Bitty’s fault.

So he makes himself ask about it, because he’s scared and because it can’t exactly make anything worse. “Did you—know before? That Parse liked boys?”

Zimms looks up at him, gaze cool, and lets out a short laugh. “Yeah. I knew. Everyone does.”

Bitty smiles weakly, because at least Parse’s life won’t be ruined after Bitty’s dead. “Oh. Good.”

“What do you have to be smiling about?” Zimms frowns at him.

Bitty looks away—Zimms’ gaze is just this side of too intense. “I just—I didn’t want Parse to be outed because of me,” he says.

“You’re about to die, you know,” Zimms says bluntly.

Bitty flinches. “Y-yeah. I know.”

“And yet you’re worrying about Parse?” Zimms leans forward, draping his arms over the back of the chair.

“Um—yeah.” Bitty swallows.

Zimms blinks at him. “You’re a strange one.”

It’s not a compliment. “Thanks,” Bitty laughs hollowly. It’s not a compliment.

Mouth twisting, Zimms sits back again. “You must’ve had trouble with that kind of thing, for you to be worrying about it for Parse.”

Bitty’s surprised at the sudden probe into his history, but it’s a distraction from from the whole dying thing so he might as well go with it. “The deep South ain’t the friendliest place for people like me.”

“Ah.” Zimms nods. “That’s rough, eh?”

Bitty tilts his head. “You’re Canadian?”

“Sure.” Zimms cocks an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I’ve never heard someone say ‘eh’ in real life before.”

“Huh,” Zimms says. Bitty starts to smile at that, but ends up covering it with his hand. Zimms had questioned him the last time he’d smiled, after all, and anyway he shouldn’t be smiling at all because he’s going to die.

But halfway through that thought, he realizes that he’s not actually panicking anymore. He’s scared, yes, but—it won’t hurt. Parse has put him to sleep before, and it’d been nearly painless. He’ll go to sleep, and he might not ever wake up again, but there’s really nothing he can do to help that. Parse will be here soon, at least, and hopefully Parse will smile at him again—maybe even flirt with him if Zimms leaves. Bitty will have that to look forward to, even if part of it’s only wishful thinking.

And—this talk with Zimms is one of the last conversations he’s going to have on this earth, isn’t it? He might as well enjoy himself.

“So…” he asks, “What do you like to do for fun?”

Zimms stares at him. “What?”

Bitty clears his throat nervously. “Just curious.”

Zimms blinks at him. “All right… Uh, I like reading about history?”

“History is cool.” Bitty forces a smile. “Honestly, I think the history of food is really interesting. My Moomaw taught me all sorts of things about food back when she was a youngun, and I haven’t done a lot of reading on it but I’d really like to learn more. There’s a lot of neat wartime trends, you know?” And yeah, he’s kind of babbling, but now there’s a spark of interest behind the strange look Zimms is giving him.

“I’ve read about that, actually,” Zimms says slowly, as if he can’t believe he’s getting dragged into this discussion. “One of my favorite historians wrote a book on it.”

“Ooh! Can you tell me about it?” Bitty lights up.

“Uh. Okay,” Zimms says, and then he leans forward and starts talking. It’s the strangest thing, because he slowly gets more and more animated as he speaks, until he’s making big gestures with his hands and Bitty is honestly at ease.

He’s—enjoying himself, as strange as that is.

“That’s most of what I remember, anyway.” Zimms finishes with a shrug, and then the edges of his lips quirk up in what might actually be a smile.

“Well, that’s something, isn’t it?” Bitty mumbles quietly.

Zimms nods along, but Bitty hadn’t been talking about the history lesson.

They lapse into silence until Parse returns. Bitty’s anxiousness trickles back into him, pervading his mind all over again, but at least he’d made the best of his last few moments.

He’s going to die.

xXx

Jack turns around when Parse bursts into the room, obviously out of breath with briefcase in hand. Parse blinks, confused, and Jack realizes they must make a strange picture, him and—Bitty, was it?—sitting at the table as if nothing is wrong.

Except then, across from him, Bitty starts to shake. “H-hi,” he says.

Parse makes a funny gasping sound. “Uhh—hey.”

And fuck—Jack’s starting to realize that he’s actually upset that Bitty has to die. Bitty’s small and sweet and a genuinely nice conversation partner, and sincerity practically radiates from his body—Jack can understand now why Parse had saved him in the first place.

Worse, Bitty reminds Jack entirely too much of Kent—back when he’d been younger, back when he’d been a little more carefree. Fuck. This is even worse than Jack had imagined.

His hands start to shake. He moves them to grip his chair so no one can see.

Parse comes over and sets the briefcase on the table, and Bitty instantly recoils. Then he bites his lip, leaning over the kit as Parse opens it. “I can look, right?” he asks.

“Sure,” Parse answers, but he sounds worn. “You would’ve seen a similar layout in the manual, I think.”

“Giving him all our secrets, aren’t you, Parse?” Jack’s anger flares unexpectedly. But he’s not _really_ angry with Parse anymore—he’s angry at the whole situation, angry at the circumstances that have led him here, to this chair, to watching Parse kill an innocent boy. _Goddamnit_.

Parse shoots him a glare. “Look, Zimms. I’m getting ready to kill him. You literally cannot ask me for anything else, okay?”

Jack nearly flinches from the disgust in Parse’s face. He grits his teeth, trying to keep himself from lashing out, because the moment they’d started fighting Bitty had curled in on himself in fear.

“Whatever, Parse,” he mutters.

Parse blinks down at the kit for a moment, then shakes himself out it. He reaches down, briefly fingering one of the small knives in the kit. “We never did get to practice,” he murmurs to Bitty, turning pointedly away from Jack.

“Might’ve been fun,” Bitty says. His voice barely hides how much he’s shaking. “Those look awful sharp, though.”

“I would’ve given you a blunt one,” Parse says, and then instead of picking up anything from the kit, he walks over to Bitty and wraps him in a hug.

Bitty sighs into it, resting his head in the crook of Parse’s neck. There’s no awkwardness in it, as if they’ve done this several times before, and Jack is suddenly feeling angry all over again. “Can we get a move on?” he grumbles, looking away, and the guilt is fucking eating him alive.

When he looks back, Parse is glaring daggers at him over Bitty’s shoulder.

“Grow a fucking heart, Zimms,” he spits. And then for good measure, he keeps holding onto Bitty for much longer than is frankly necessary, until the jealousy is itching, burning under Jack’s skin.

He shouldn’t be jealous, he really shouldn’t. But knowing Parse sleeps around while off on missions and watching him hug someone else right in front of him are completely different things, and even though Jack doesn’t want to tell Parse how to live his life—he doesn’t get that privilege, not after everything that’s happened—he still wishes Parse were hugging _him_ instead.

Hearing Holster gossiping about the shower tryst barely an hour ago had rubbed him entirely the wrong way. “I think Parse was fucking his mystery boyfriend in the shower this morning!” Holster had nudged Ransom as they passed Jack in the halls of the training center, and—and Jack _knows_ Parse wasn’t fucking his “mystery boyfriend”, because the alleged mystery boyfriend is Jack himself. Only they’re not boyfriends. Sometimes he wishes things between him and Parse were that easy.

But being jealous is one thing. Making Parse kill the boy is something else entirely, something that’s more than a little fucked up.

It’s when Parse finally lets go that Bitty starts crying. Parse’s face crumples too, and he doesn’t cry but the look of distress in his eyes is enough to send another pang of guilt vibrating through Jack’s body. _God_.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Parse says, sliding his hand through Bitty’s hair. “It’s okay, shh.”

Their faces are so close together that it looks like they might kiss.

They don’t.

But the damage is already done, because Jack looks at Parse, heart starting to race because then he realizes— _oh_. Fuck. Parse loves Bitty, at least a little bit. Jack has no idea if it’s platonic or not—although he’s betting not—but his gut twists in panic. He’s just ordered Parse—his best fucking friend—to kill someone he loves.

What the fuck is he doing?

Parse keeps his hand in Bitty’s hair, leaning over to reach for the kit syringe. Bitty starts crying harder, staring at Kent’s chest, his whole body shuddering. “B-bye,” he whispers.

Parse rolls his head up to stare at the ceiling. He’d uncapped the syringe, but his hand is shaking, and he hasn’t looked at Jack for at least five minutes.

He might never look at Jack again, at this rate.

Jack squeezes his eyes shut, but then unbidden images of a different scared, blond boy immediately assault him— _fuck_. He quickly reopens his eyes. He doesn’t need to be thinking about that right now.

But Parse’s words echo on and on in his brain— _Grow a fucking heart, Zimms._

Goddamnit—Jack’s heart beats faster, faster. His mouth feels dry.

 “Fuck. _Fuck._ ” Parse looks back down at Bitty. He shakes his head slowly and reaches for Bitty’s arm. “I’m not gonna say goodbye. It’s too sad.”

“Okay,” Bitty says, and then he laughs through his tears, a little gasping sob as Parse readies the needle.

Parse’s hand is still shaking. He’s going to miss Bitty’s arm. Jack opens his mouth and orders, “Stop.”

“I can do it, Zimms,” Parse bites out.

“No—no. Stop.” Jack stands, crossing his arms. “Put it away.”

Slowly, Parse and Bitty both turn to stare at him.

Jack doesn’t know what he’s doing. He prides himself on making decisions that are based on logic, on careful consideration of all the circumstances, and this is not one of those decisions.

Or maybe logic is the very reason he’d decided to stop this. Parse would have been devastated; Jack only has to close his eyes and imagine Parse sobbing over Bitty’s body to know that. And then Parse never would have confided in Jack again, because Jack knows that Parse would most definitely have blamed him for how this had ended.

And Jack can’t stand not having Parse in his life.

“W-what?” Bitty asks. His hand slips up to grip Kent’s shirt like an anchor.

“Are you at all athletic?” Jack asks him instead of answering, words coming out like punches. He’d been angry before, and now he’s angry at himself too, because he’s going to have to find a way to explain this to fucking _everyone_ —

Bitty opens his mouth. “Um. I figure skate?”

Jack breathes in very slowly, then expels the breath, trying to imagine that it’s taking all the worry out with it. It doesn’t quite work. “Parse,” he grits out, turning to him. “Put the damn syringe down.”

“Yessir,” Parse says, nearly dropping it in his haste to comply.

“One, don’t call me sir. Two, you are still in a monumental amount of trouble for this, you hear?”

Parse nods, face pale.

“You are going to be responsible for the entirety of his training.” Parse starts to nod again, but Jack holds out a hand to stop him. “You may keep your room, but as of this moment you have been functionally demoted. You will not be allowed to go on any missions until he’s completely ready. Understand?”

“But Zimms—“

“ _Understand_?”

Parse breathes out a shaky sigh and he nods once more. “Okay.” Then he turns to Bitty, and slowly, his face splits into the biggest grin Jack has seen on his face in years. “ _Bits._ ”

“P-Parse,” Bitty chokes out, but he’s smiling—and then he jumps up into Parse’s arms with such enthusiasm that his feet literally leave the ground. Parse swings him around in a circle, starting to laugh, and the twinges of jealousy in Jack’s stomach come back in full force.

He turns to leave. This moment is not for him. But before he can turn the doorknob, he feels a hand on his back. Turning, he’s surprised to find that it’s not Parse, but Bitty, eyes still brimming with tears.

“Thank you,” Bitty whispers, and then he leans up and hugs Jack too.

Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with his arms. He brings them up and lets them rest awkwardly on the small of Bitty’s back, trying and failing not to catch Parse’s eye—Parse is smirking at them now.

“Why’re you still crying? You should be happy, eh?” Jack asks quietly.

Bitty laughs at the ‘eh’, just like Jack had maybe wanted him to. “Happy tears,” he explains, pulling away.

And then Parse nearly barrels Jack over as he hugs him, and Jack knows this touch, lets it leach some of the worry from his skin. He has a million excuses to make, and the sooner he can start the better, but right now… Right now, Parse doesn’t hate him, and that’s enough for Jack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remaining chapters to come! <3


	3. Chapter 3

Bitty’s almost sad to have to move out of Kent’s room. There’s some awkward tension now that they’re alone, floating between them in little glances as Bitty retrieves the books he’s borrowing. He’s really going to miss Parse.

Apparently Parse can tell what he’s thinking, because as Bitty goes to reach for the door handle, Parse chuckles. “You know you’re going to be seeing me every day, right? You don’t have to look so sad.”

Bitty laughs. “Who says I was sad about that?”

“I mean, what else would you have to be sad—actually, you know what, never mind. That’s a dumb question.” Parse pulls a face. “Sorry.”

Bitty sighs. He’s got a million things to be sad about—his family. Never actually going to college. Becoming a killer.

But also—he’s not dead. And he’s young and gay and really, really attracted to Parse, so is it wrong to be sad that he’ll no longer be lying next to him every night? That he won’t wake up at two or three in the morning and find Parse, dead asleep, with a warm arm slung around him by accident?

“I’m a little sad,” he admits as they walk down the hallway.

Parse pats him on the back, and the touch feels hotter than it should. “Me, too. Silly, isn’t it?”

Bitty laughs softly. “You ain’t s’posed to be sad,” he mumbles, flushing as his accent comes out stronger than he’d meant it to. “You’ve got—” Someone. It’s a strange thought, Parse lying in bed with someone else, kissing him, _naked_ —Bitty forces himself to stop thinking about it because it’s causing something unpleasant to twist in his gut.

Parse shrugs, motioning at a door near the end of the hallway as they stop in front of it. “Yeah.”

Bitty pulls out the keycard that Zimms had given him before he left, sliding it through the slot next to the door. It clicks open, and he walks in to find a room, smaller than Parse’s, with a bed and a desk on either side. There are shelves lining the walls and a cabinet on one side, but he’s disappointed to see that there’s nowhere to cook.

“Um—do I have a roommate?” he points to one of the desks, which is completely spotless except for a single book resting on its surface. He can’t tell if someone actually lives here or not; both beds look the same, and all of the shelves are empty.

“Yep. His name’s Johnson, which half of us are kinda convinced is his real name, but it’s common enough that we’re not worried about him being traced from it.” Parse tilts his head. “He’s kind of a weird dude, but he’s nice and he doesn’t leave his shit everywhere like I do, so.”

Bitty blushes; the first day Parse had left him alone, he’d spent half of it cleaning up Parse’s desk just for something to do. Parse hadn’t even noticed until two days later. He leans over Johnson’s desk to look at the book— _Constructing a Narrative in an Unfamiliar Setting_. Huh—he must be a writer.

“Good to know,” Bitty says.” “Hmm, um—I need clothes, I think?” He walks over to set his books on his own desk, then sits on the bed across from Johnson’s. It’s just as uncomfortable as it looks, but thankfully it already has sheets and a blanket.

“Hmm.” Parse’s mouth twists. “They’re not gonna trust you to go out shopping. Hell, they might not even trust me right now, either. Uh, we can get Zimms to go?”

Bitty blanches. Zimms had been wearing sweats and a threadbare t-shirt when Bitty had seen him in Parse’s room. “Um.”

Parse waits about three seconds before bursting into laughter. “Kidding. I wouldn’t force his fashion choices on anyone. I could probably convince Lardo to go?”

Bitty brightens considerably at that, taking another glance around the room. “I shouldn’t need much else, right? Only—what should I do about food?”

“I can lend you some clothes and hygiene stuff, and that should be it. Food-wise, there’s a mess hall right next door to this building,” Parse tells him, slipping his hands into the pocket of his jeans. “I should use it more than I do, to tell ya the truth. It’s probably better than eating canned stuff all the time.”

“We can go together,” Bitty says immediately, and God, that’s way too forward, isn’t it? “Um, I mean—if you’re not busy.”

Parse chuckles. “Sure, Bits.”

xXx

Kent raps his knuckles on Zimms’ door, half-heartedly attempting to calm himself as he waits—he’s pretty sure it’s not gonna work. Zimms opens the door wordlessly, looking him up and down with a pinched look on his face before stepping back to let him in.

They sit down on the couch, Kent slouching on his usual side and putting his feet up on the coffee table. Usually, Zimms swats him in the leg or grumbles playfully about it, but this time he just eyes Kent with a silent glare.

Kent puts his feet down. “Uh, so, how’d it go?”

Zimms sighs through his nose. “About as wonderfully as you’d expect.” He leans against the cushions, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. “They agreed, but it took a lot of convincing, and they were very clear—if there’s any indication whatsoever that he’s going to betray us, he’s dead.”

Kent grimaces. He’d thought as much. “Shit. You don’t—you don’t think he’d turn traitor, right, Zimms?”

“Honestly? Not really,” Zimms allows. “But they’re going to be very critical. He needs to know the rulebook like the back of his hand before he goes out, all right? Or they’ll throw out his case on some stupid technicality, and there’s no way they’ll let us appeal it. Head Hall was furious enough as it was. Head Murray was a little more sympathetic, but I think that’s just how he is, and you know he’ll let Hall have the final say anyway.”

Kent nods, staring down at the coffee table. This fucking sucks. There’s no doubt in his mind that Bitty’s honestly going to try his best, but from what it sounds like, they could kill him for lesser infractions than every other newbie gets away with. It’s so _unfair_.

At least Zimms is sort of on his side. His expression is strained in a way that makes Kent think he has a headache, and Kent observes him quietly for a moment before leaning over and patting him heavily on the knee. “Thanks, Zimms. Really.”

For the first time that day, the corner of Zimms mouth lifts—it’s not a smile, but it’s not a frown either. “What else was I supposed to do? You would’ve been useless for weeks after, I bet.”

Kent chuckles. “Shut up,” he says, leaning over and nudging Zimms’ shoulder.

Zimms gives him a sidelong glance. “You would’ve hated me if I’d let you do it,” he nearly whispers.

Kent’s eyes widen. “Zimms—no. I wouldn’t have—” he stops, shaking his head.

“You would’ve,” Zimms says honestly, and Kent has to swallow hard to take away the sadness pooling in his throat.

He doesn’t quite know what to say, so he changes the subject instead. “Hey, you want a back-rub?”

“Hm? Uh, sure?” Zimms looks surprised.

“Here, lemme get behind you.” Kent crawls over, and Zimms sits on the edge of the seat so Kent can slide in behind him. He slides his hands up Zimms’ shoulders, kneading into the muscle, and Zimms lets out a quiet sigh.

“Parse?”

“Hmm?” Kent says, using the side of his fist to work a particular spot that makes Zimms jump.

“This morning—” he says, then stops, as if he’s not sure he really wants to ask about it.

Fuck, Kent had nearly forgotten about telling him. Damnit—what is he supposed to say? “Uh,” he swallows, pausing his massage so he can slide his arms around Zimms’ waist. Maybe if he holds him still, Zimms won’t leave him. “We—well. The shower?”

Zimms nods. “Tell me—what happened, maybe?”

Kent sighs. “Shit—all right. We jerked off. Separately. And that was it—I didn’t look at him at all.” He says it all fast, because maybe that way it won’t hurt as much.

It still hurts.

He can feel as every muscle in Zimms’ body goes tense. He’s silent for a solid minute, and Kent can’t see his face but he doesn’t think he wants to.

Finally, Zimms sighs sharply. “I know I’ve said that you could—do stuff with other people before, but—I’m really jealous. Sorry.”

_Fuck._ “I know,” Kent mumbles, pressing his face against Zimms’ back. “I’m sorry. Really.”

“But,” Zimms continues slowly, “That’s not—well. I was thinking worse.”

“I wouldn’t have done more. Seriously.”

Zimms sighs. “I know.” He’s silent for two beats, and then slowly, his body starts relaxing. “But you should be able to. We’re not—dating. And I told you that you could, so I shouldn’t be—disappointed.”

“I’d be disappointed, maybe. If it were you,” Kent admits.

Zimms huffs a laugh. “Do you honestly think I could even convince someone else to have not-sex with me?”

Uh. Yes? Kent leans around to look up at his face. “Zimms. Have you _seen_ your ass?”

Zimms rolls his eyes, his lips quirking nonetheless. “Sure, sure.”

“Not to mention—God, Zimms, you’re fucking hot, okay?”

The tips of Zimms’ ears grow pink. “ _Parse_.”

“It’s true.” Kent gives his elbow a little stubborn pinch. “I bet Bitty would agree.”

Zimms’ face reddens further, in sharp contrast with the blue of his eyes. “You are _not_ asking him.”

Kent shifts closer, laughing. Zimms raises an eyebrow at him, then presses slightly back, and fuck, Kent’s getting hard. There’s no doubt that Zimms can feel it. “How would you know if I asked him?”

“I wouldn’t,” Zimms grumbles. “But you won’t.”

“Oh, I dunno.” Kent pretends to consider it. “He’s your type, isn’t he?”

“We’re not talking about this.” Zimms pulls himself forward and stands up, but the smirk on his face is clear as day when he turns to look at Kent. “Unless thinking about him gets you horny, eh?”

Kent flushes. “Yep. You’re right. We’re not talking about this.”

“Good,” Zimms says, padding over toward the bedroom of his suite. He pauses in the doorway. “Are you coming or not?”

Kent scrambles to follow, grinning and tackling him to the bed when they get close enough, and _God_ , it’s been a while since they’ve done this. Zimms squirms under him, chuckling as he tries to flip them over, but then Kent leans down and kisses him and Zimms groans unabashedly into his mouth.

Zimms is all stubble and lips and the slick slide of tongue and Kent can’t get enough of it, could never get enough of the way Zimms’ eyes get all dopey after he’s been thoroughly kissed, of the way Kent can feel Zimms hard against his body. Kent rolls his hips a little, and _fuck_ , that feels good, so he does it again—and shit, now he’s let his guard down because Zimms smirks and grabs his arms. In the blink of an eye, Zimms rolls them over so he can bracket Kent’s hips in with his knees. It’s torture, Kent can’t get any _friction_ like this—“God, _Zimms_.”

“Hmm?” Zimms arches a brow. “Oh, are you turned on? Huh. Thinking about Bitty, eh?”

Kent shoots him a look. “Zimms…”

Zimms laughs, leaning down to nip at his ear, and Kent gasps at the feel of hot breath on his skin. “Are you? Thinking about him?”

Well—he hadn’t been. But now that Zimms has brought it up, Kent can’t help but remember the sound of slick skin, the way Bitty had gasped behind him as he came— _oh, God_. “Is—Zimms, is this a sex thing or is this a jealousy thing? Because I can’t—not if you’re jealous.”

“I am jealous,” Zimms says carefully, pulling back to look down at him. “But—I think this is a sex thing.”

“Oh,” Kent can feel his face burning. “Shit—okay, then.”

Without looking, Zimms reaches down and presses his hand against Kent’s dick through his jeans. Kent gasps, unable to keep himself from pressing up into it, and a smile flickers on Zimms’ lips. “You’re hard. You were hard this morning too, right?”

If Kent didn’t know him better, he would’ve sworn the roughness in Zimms’ voice was from frustration. But Kent can see the bulge in his sweats, can see the way his pupils have gotten so, so dark—Zimms is so turned on, and Kent wants him so fucking badly. “I—I was,” he admits huskily, as Zimms starts rocking his hand against him.

“How did—what happened?” Zimms licks his lips.

“I—he saw, that I was hard. And he was hard too, so he said that maybe we should—take care of it?”

Zimms closes his eyes briefly, nodding, and when he opens them they’re even darker than before. He reaches for Kent’s zipper— _fuck_. “You didn’t look though, right?”

“No.” Kent shakes his head, reaching up to stroke Zimms’ waist before letting his arm fall. “I could—I could hear him, though.”

“Oh?” Zimms manages to get Kent’s jeans open one-handed, but his other arm is straining from the effort, so he sits up when he tugs the pants down Kent’s hips. Kent lets him take them completely off, stripping his own shirt away in the process.

“He—fuck, Zimms. He like, whimpered. It wa-as— _o-oh_ ,” his voice breaks as Zimms takes his cock in hand. “It was really hot,” he admits, looking away.

“Mm.” Zimms bites his lip, twisting his wrist over Kent’s cock before pulling back down.

Kent groans, letting his eyes rove over Zimms’ body. “You gonna get naked?”

“Nngh—okay,” Zimms says, sitting up and pulling his shirt over his head. It gets stuck halfway there, so Kent sits up and helps him with it, an easy smile tilting his lips and happiness brimming in his chest.

“Hey,” Kent says quietly after they’ve tossed the shirt across the room. Their faces are inches apart, and Kent feels warm and hazy and so fucking turned on, heart pounding in his ears. A grin spreads across Zimms’ face.

“Parse,” Zimms murmurs, leaning forward to close the gap. And then they’re crashing into each other again, Zimms pushing Kent back into the bed and Kent struggling to push Zimms’ pants and underwear off as they press their lips together until Kent’s mouth is sore.

Zimms leans down and nips sharply at the soft skin of Kent’s neck, and Kent groans. “Fuckin’—Zimms, I need—” He ruts shamelessly upwards against Zimms’ bare hips, and Zimms hisses a moan.

“Want to be in you.” Zimms presses his forehead to Kent’s chest, and Kent shudders.

“Yes, yes—fuck, yeah—you got lube?”

Zimms whines low in his throat and leans over to rummage in the drawer of his nightstand. Then he pushes Kent’s legs up until he’s bent nearly in half, and Kent is shaking with how much he wants it, _God_.

“Fuckkk,” he hisses at the first touch of Zimms’ slick fingers.

“Think he’d let you do this to him?” Zimms trails his fingers slowly up and down, barely grazing Kent’s entrance, and Kent stares at him.

“ _Zimms_.”

Zimms flushes. “Um. Never mind, you’re right—that’s probably weird.”

Kent squirms slightly, because Zimms has stopped touching him and he doesn’t want that. “I—um, I mean. It’s hot?”

Zimms presses the pad of his finger against Kent’s entrance, just holds it there. Kent clenches involuntarily, feeling fluttery and open and Zimms, _Zimms_. “Is it—bad? To talk about him like that?”

“I, uh. I dunno.” Kent looks away. Zimms taps lightly at his hole, and Kent moans—“ _God_ , Zimms, you’re gonna kill me.”

“Are you thinking about him?”

Something like guilt has Kent clenching his teeth, but then Zimms pushes, sliding his finger slowly in, and Kent gasps. “Fuck!”

“Good?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Zimms smiles at him, and Kent hadn’t answered his question but maybe that’s okay.

Slowly, almost tenderly, Zimms starts fucking him with that finger, opening up something so raw inside Kent’s chest that it almost hurts. “I—you should know—I think he has a pretty big crush on me,” Kent admits quietly.

Zimms starts to push another finger in. “Hmm. Makes sense.”

“Does—ah—does it?” Kent voice comes out all breathy.

“I mean—who wouldn’t have a crush on you?” Zimms’ lips quirk. “You flirt with everything that walks.”

“Shush,” Kent mumbles. “Hey—you know, I think there might just be a compliment hidden in there.”

“Maybe.” Zimms grins at him.

And then Zimms angles his fingers up at his prostate, and Kent gasps again. “Oh fuck—shit, Zimms, oh _God!_ ”

“You think he’d squirm like that?” Zimms pulls back, starts working in a third finger.

“Fuck, um—yes,” Kent says, and then he groans because that, more than anything, he can picture—Bitty squirming on his fingers and making little whimpery noises, and this is probably very wrong but _fuck_ , it’s so, so hot.

“Mmm,” Zimms hums, pulling his fingers out slowly and grabbing a tissue to wipe them off. He retrieves a condom, rolling it on, smiling softly down at Kent in a way that makes Kent’s heart flutter in all sorts of ways. “Would you—uh, never mind.”

“What?” Kent pushes himself up on his elbows, curious.

“Might be too far,” Zimms flushes, slicking his cock with a few careful strokes.

Kent swallows. As far as he’s concerned, they’re already far past the point of no return. “You can say it.”

Zimms slips his hand around the back of Kent’s neck and kisses him deeply, leaning them both down until Kent’s horizontal again. He draws Kent’s legs up, staring at Kent’s hardening cock, at his slick hole in a way that makes Kent shiver.

“Okay.” Zimms looks up at him. “Would you fuck him?”

Oh God. Kent looks up at the ceiling. “I—I mean? Maybe if—I dunno.” Maybe if he and Zimms weren’t whatever unquantifiable thing that they seem to be right now. Maybe if he hadn’t been with Zimms for so long that it seems nearly impossible to disentangle the threads of their lives, to pull them apart into their own separate people. But also—Bitty is sweet and snarky and—fuck, yeah, Kent has to admit he’s thought about sleeping with him, at least a little bit.

“If there wasn’t a chance I’d get jealous? Or mad?” Zimms rubs the inside of Kent’s thigh with his thumb.

“I—shit, I mean, yeah. If it wasn’t weird? Probably.” Kent feels his face burn. “He’s really cute. He, um—slept in my bed for a while. It was—God.”

“Hmm. Okay,” Zimms says, expression inscrutable. But then he gives Kent a soft smile, lines himself up, and presses in.

Kent cries out. Somehow he always forgets how fucking incredible having Zimms inside him is, pressing in deeper and deeper like he’s reaching into Kent’s very core. Zimms leans down to kiss him as he starts rolling his hips, slowly, thoroughly breaking Kent open, and everything is Zimms, the tongue in Kent’s mouth and the pulsing warmth up his ass and the hand gripping his shoulder, oh fuck, fuck.

“You’re so—you feel so g-good,” Kent manages, shuddering.

“Fuck,” Zimms says, pressing his face into Kent’s neck and slowly increasing the pace of his thrusts.

Kent reaches up to touch him, slides his hands over Zimms’ body everywhere he can reach. “I— _oh_ , do that again,” he says as Zimms adjusts the angle—and then, as quietly as he can manage, he groans, “ _Jack_.”

Zimms—and he can be Jack for now, when it’s just the two of them like this, can’t he?— _Jack_ leans up and kisses him softly. “You’re not supposed to call me that, you know,” he murmurs.

“I know,” Kent says, pressing his hips up to meet Jack’s next thrust, and Jack groans. “I like it, though.”

And Kent really does love calling Jack by his real name—it feels intimate, because no one calls him Jack anymore, no one at all. Kent himself had to start calling him Zimms in his head, because otherwise he knew he would slip up—but maybe it’s okay now, to stop censoring his thoughts quite so much?

“I know—you do,” Jack says quietly, his voice punctuated by gasps, and Kent can tell he’s getting close.

“Is that okay? Just—ah, _shit_ —sometimes?” Kent asks him.

“Okay,” Jack says after a moment, and then he leans down, the smallest smile on his lips, and murmurs, “ _Kenny_.”

“Nngh—fuck, fuck,” Kent sobs as Jack starts fucking him even harder, and Kent fumbles between them to stroke himself. He’s right on the edge and he wants—needs—“Oh God, Jack, _Jack_ —!” He shudders violently, spurting between them, and Jack’s mouth is half-open as he speeds his pace until his hips start stuttering.

Jack comes wordlessly, as he always does, but Kent closes his eyes and thinks about _Kenny_ , relishes the way Jack is shuddering erratically and the feeling of Jack’s cock pulsing inside him. It’s almost hot enough to make Kent want more, even though he’s completely spent.

Jack pulls out soon after, pressing a kiss to Kent’s lips before getting up to clean off. Kent follows suit, thankful as always that Jack has his own bathroom. He’s in the middle of shaking out his jeans to put them on when Jack comes out of the bathroom and walks straight over to him, kissing him softly. “You want to stay the night?”

Kent’s eyebrows fly up. “I thought—you always said we’d get caught,” he points out, jeans feeling awkward in his fingers.

Jack huffs a laugh. “Well—see, someone managed to hide someone in their bedroom for an entire week before I even noticed, so—maybe I was being a little paranoid.”

Slowly, Kent grins. “All right,” he says.

He and Jack crawl into bed together, and Kent’s shared lots of things with Jack but never _this_. God, it’s not really _real_ , but it feels so nice. They end up spooning, Jack curled around his back, and Kent’s so happy—but also it’s strange, because for so many nights he’s shared a bed with a much smaller body. It’s something to get used to.

Jack’s quiet for so long that Kent thinks he’s fallen asleep, which Kent can’t do because his mind is far too busy. But then Jack leans closer, lips near Kent’s ear. “If you really want to sleep with him—you should. I wouldn’t—I couldn’t stop you.”

“Zimms— _Jack_.” Kent furrows his brow, rolling over to face him. “I thought you said that was a sex thing, not a jealousy thing.”

Jack’s lips tighten, barely visible in the moonlight streaming in from the window. “I—it might’ve been both,” he admits. “But—it’s really all right?”

“Oh.” Kent swallows. And now he feels really off-kilter, because Jack’s been the only one he’s wanted for a really fucking long time. And he _has_ Jack now, but—but he has no idea if it’s permanent. Jack has made it pretty clear that he doesn’t want more than friendship and occasionally sex; he’s said point blank that he doesn’t think he and Kent should date, and it sucks because Kent’s pretty sure he’s really fucking _gone_ over Jack and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Not to mention—well. Bitty is cute and sassy and obviously likes Kent at least a little. Worse, Kent is starting to find it hard to deny how attracted he is to Bitty, to the soft smile that’d sometimes graced his lips when Kent had walked into his room after training, to the warm body on the other side of Kent’s pillows as they’d lain there and waited for sleep to find them.

“I dunno,” he says finally, pulling himself closer to Jack. “I—” _I like you. I really like you. I’d stay with you forever if you’d let me_ , he thinks. But he can’t say any of that out loud, so instead he says, “Are you trying to convince me to let you watch?”

Jack freezes. “Not—on purpose?”

Kent laughs, slips his hand over to stroke Jack’s hip through the covers until Jack relaxes. “We’ll see,” he says, because he doesn’t want to lie and say no, but it’s not a definite ‘yes’ either.

And that’s assuming he’s right, and Bitty actually _does_ want to kiss him. There’s always the chance that Bitty’s crush will wear off once they start training together, and then Kent won’t have to worry about this at all.

But the thought of Bitty not liking him anymore makes his heart clench uncomfortably, so he pushes it carefully away, focusing on the way Jack is curved toward him, face soft in near-sleep. He leans forward until his head is resting on Jack’s chest and tries his best to drift off.

xXx

Johnson hadn’t been there when Bitty had fallen asleep, and he’s still not there when Bitty wakes in the morning, although Johnson’s pillow has been moved slightly to the left so Bitty assumes he must have come in at some point. He debates leaving some sort of note of introduction, but he assumes he’ll meet him at some point later and anyway he doesn’t have a pen.

He shuffles to the bathroom to shower and brush his teeth, relieved when he doesn’t run into anyone—he’s allowed to be here now, but he still doesn’t _know_ anyone yet. He’s not sure he’s well enough equipped to explain himself without Parse or Jack there. When he comes back to the room, he dresses in some of the clothes Parse had let him borrow, rubbing at the soreness in his back from where he’d slept on it funny the night before.

Then he sits at his desk to wait for Parse. He spends about an hour reading and an additional half hour staring off into space until he hears a knock on the door and goes to open it.

“Hey,” Parse says, smiling at him. “Ready for breakfast?”

“You sure keep a boy waiting.” Bitty raises an eyebrow, making sure he has the keycard to his room before letting the door swing shut behind him.

“Sorry,” Parse shrugs. “I overslept.”

“Suuure,” Bitty says. He doesn’t really mean anything by it, but then the tips of Parse’s ears go red as they head toward the elevator. “Hang on a sec—Parse, did you get _laid_ last night?”

“Shh,” Parse holds a finger over his lips, winking. He totally _did_ , and Bitty is tempted to ask about it but he also doesn’t want to pry.

They walk over to the mess hall, which is the next building over, and join in the mercifully short food line. Bitty is momentarily worried as he picks up his tray—he doesn’t have any sort of money—but the older man at the end of the line simply gestures for his room key with no mention of payment.

They find a small table in the corner of the room. Bitty keeps his head down—he keeps expecting someone to point and whisper about him, but as he digs into his pancakes he gradually realizes that no one cares.

It’s after his tenth worried glance around the room that Parse speaks up. “No one knows, you know. Except Holster, but I haven’t seen him around, so you don’t have to look so tense. We get new people fairly often—it’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Oh,” Bitty says, immediately feeling a lot better about being out in the open like this. “The food’s pretty good,” he remarks.

Parse nods approvingly. He points over at one of the workers, who’s heading toward a door in the corner of the room. “They’re all ex-assassins. Retired, usually. Sometimes people just stick around—it’s nice if you’ve made friends around here. A whole floor of our building is retirees.”

As the woman steps through the door, Bitty catches a glance of a kitchen that looks brighter and sunnier than any cafeteria kitchen he’s ever seen. Gosh, he bets there’s an _oven_. “What do people do otherwise, once they’re done?”

Parse’s lips twist. “Well—assuming they live to the end of their contract, which Zimms’ll probably bring you to sign later—they usually travel. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. Some people say it’s hard to settle down when you’re so used to going on missions all the time, and some people are just plain paranoid. I don’t blame ‘em—this place is really fucking safe.”

Bitty snorts, poking at his bacon. “Safe.”

“For agents anyway,” Parse says ruefully. “Sorry. You kinda caught the bad end of that.”

“I’d sure say so.” Bitty wrinkles his nose.

Parse laughs and nudges his foot under the table, and the touch makes Bitty want to shiver. “But you’re okay now.”

“Yeah.” Bitty stares down at his half empty plate, trying desperately not to think about how Parse had almost certainly had sex last night, because his mind keeps trying to go back to that and he doesn’t _want_ to have to imagine it. But then Parse slides his leg over so that his calf is pressed ever-so-slightly against Bitty’s, and Bitty’s heart swells—at least he has this. “I really am.”

xXx

By the time they leave the mess hall, they’re one of the last few in the room. Parse leads him down a different pathway than the one they’d taken to get there, saying, “C’mon. I’ll show you the training hall.”

Bitty follows, gladly yammering on about the dichotomy of pies and cakes and why they aren’t even _comparable_ , and God, it’s so silly that people always try to rate them against each other, isn’t it? Parse has a little smirk on his face the entire time as if he’s faintly amused, but whenever Bitty trails off, he asks a genuine question and then Bitty’s off again. It’s so _nice_ to be able to chat with Parse without the threat of death hanging right over his head. And to have Parse looking at him, making him feel like he’s shining like the sun—Lord.

He drops off mid-sentence when they reach the building doors, suddenly nervous, but he follows anyway as Parse swipes his room key and leads him in. The hall is massive—the walls look at least three stories tall, enough that Bitty has to crane his neck to see the ceiling.

Even more interestingly, the entire place looks to be separated into different rooms by dividers that stand about ten feet high. However, all of the dividers are transparent—Bitty can see all the way through to the end of the building if he squints hard enough, though his sight is obscured by the myriad of people and furniture in the different areas.

“Wow,” he breathes.

“Neat, isn’t it? Everything’s bulletproof glass, by the way. Apparently there’s a configuration that makes the whole place impenetrable—you see these hinges?” he points out on a nearby wall. “You can roll up the partitions if you want, or move them around however you need to. There are a couple of rooms no one messes with though—I’ll show you those first.”

Bitty nods, following Parse carefully—even though everything is see-through, there are so many twists and turns that Bitty quickly feels lost. “Damn, this is a maze, ain’t it?”

“You’ll learn it,” Parse assures him. Then he smirks. “Normally newbies have to figure it out by themselves, but I’m kinda stuck with you, so you can just follow me around if you need to.”

“You sound offended to be stuck with me.” Bitty raises an eyebrow.

A couple of women pass them in the hallway, laughing about something. Parse shrugs, pretending to consider it. “I meeean—I did get demoted, which sucks a shit ton. But I’m not too torn up about it, and anyway it’s not your fault, so—nah, I’m not offended.” He winks.

That makes Bitty feel a little better. Not that he’d rather be dead, of course, but he still really wants Parse to like him, even if there’s no chance Parse will ever _like_ him. Bitty’s trying his best to stop thoughts like that in their tracks, because if that morning in the showers had told him anything, it was that nothing romantic should ever happen between them again. He thinks they’d both drown from the guilt.

Not that he doesn’t wish, more than anything, that Parse would kiss him. But that’s not going to happen.

They come to a door at the very end of one of the walkways. Parse gestures inside, where Bitty can see a shooting range as well as a few racks of different types of guns high up on the wall. There’s someone behind a desk in front of the guns, right next to a large ammunition shelf, and there are people further in either shooting at targets or waiting in line. “This is probably self-explanatory,” Parse says. “But this is the shooting practice room. We won’t go in because it gets kinda loud—the walls around this one are soundproof.”

As Bitty watches, a blond man inside the room levels his firearm and shoots. The bullet hits the target dummy right in the center of its forehead, and Bitty has to stifle a gasp. “I—I don’t think I could do that. It’s so—brutal.” He shivers, worrying at his lip.

“You won’t have to.” Parse pats him on the shoulder. “I dunno. I’m thinking it’ll be better not to have you actually killing, anyway. We don’t want to have you fainting or something out in the field.”

Bitty turns and stares at him. “You mean—that’s an option?”

“I mean, there’s no guarantee that you won’t have to do it, cuz anything can happen out there,” Parse points out. “But yeah, we can put you in a position where you at least won’t be the primary attacker.”

Oh, thank _God_. Bitty’s face splits into a grin. “That’s so much better than I’d been imagining—Lord, thank you,” he breathes. He’d been so worried about having to kill people all the time—and the multitude of scenarios listed in the manuals hadn’t helped lessen his imagination—but maybe, just maybe, he won’t have to.

Parse grins back. “No problem,” he says, and Bitty nearly reaches forward to hug him. But then he remembers—oh, right. They’re in public. They’re in public and Parse is taken and Bitty probably shouldn’t be hugging Parse anymore at all, if only so his own heart doesn’t get shattered into pieces.

And it’s a good thing Bitty hadn’t decided to hug him, because the blond man he’d been watching in the shooting range has returned his gun to the person at the desk and is now walking toward the door—toward them. “Ah, shit,” Parse murmurs. “Well, let’s get this over with. Probably better to do it now than later anyway.”

Bitty wants to ask what he means, but before he can say a word, the door swings open. “’Sup, Parse? Oh—shiiit, what the hell, dude?” the man’s voice booms. He stops right in front of them, staring at Bitty.

“Hey, don’t scare him,” Parse says, and Bitty realizes he’s shaking. He makes himself straighten up, but he still doesn’t feel any braver. “Holster, meet Bitty. New addition as of last night.”

Holster makes a low whistling noise, looking him up and down. “Damn. How’d you swing that one?” He holds his hand out for Bitty to shake, and Bitty takes it, trying not to tremble. This is his last kidnapper—the only voice he hadn’t yet put a face to.

“Hi,” Bitty says nervously. “Nice to meet ya in, well—different circumstances.”

Holster laughs kindly, and some of Bitty’s worry fades away. Parse grins at him before turning back to Holster. “I didn’t _mean_ to keep him around, but—you can see how that went.”

“Aww, Parse. Is it cuz he’s cute?” Holster stage whispers.

Parse shakes his head. “Nah. Shut up,” he grumbles, lightly shoving Holster’s shoulder.

And even though Parse looks embarrassed as hell, Bitty’s still kind of hurt at the denial—he wants Parse to think he’s cute. That’s really the only thing he has going for him right now.

“Well, however you managed it, kudos to you.” Holster holds up a hand for a fist-bump, which Parse returns. Bitty’s a little surprised when Holster holds out his fist to him too, but he bumps knuckles with him all the same. “Break a leg out there, dude! Obviously not literally, but you know. Oh, and if you have to talk with Zimms, don’t worry if he acts like something’s crawled up his ass. He’s like that with everyone.” Holster waves a hand goodbye, walking off.

Bitty stares after him for a second. “He’s a bit—loud,” he turns back to Parse.

Parse has a distracted look on his face. “Hmm? Oh, yeah, you’re right.” He tilts his head down the hallway. “I should show you the rest of this place.”

They walk into a room filled with computers next. “This is the other main permanent room, for obvious reasons,” Parse says, pitching his voice over the whirring of the machines. “That’s Dex and Chowder. They’re on our floor. Dex is our resident hacker; he’s the one who infiltrates databases if we need information. Pretty useful, obviously. Chowder does the opposite; he keeps up our own technological defenses for the agents who need computers to do their jobs.” Bitty only gets a quick glimpse at an annoyed looking redheaded guy—Dex—before the one called Chowder walks up to them.

“Hi Parse!!! What are you doing here? Is this a new recruit?? That’s so exciting!!” Chowder talks expressively, waving his arms around the air, and Bitty takes in his braces and his shark-patterned t-shirt and is immediately endeared.

“Yup, I’m new around here! I’m Bitty,” Bitty introduces himself with a smile, and Chowder enthusiastically takes Bitty’s hand in both of his own and shakes it up and down.

“That’s so cool!!! I mean, we probably won’t see each other a lot, but we can hang out if you ever need company!! Dex is angry at his computer right now but he’s actually really cool, I promise. Oh, and you have to meet my, um, friend, Farmer. She just went on a break though I think.” Chowder frowns.

“That’s all right,” Parse jumps in. “I’ve gotta finish showing him around anyway. We’ll be at lunch and dinner though, yeah?”

“Great!!” Chowder slings an arm quickly around Parse’s shoulder.

Parse grins and pats him on the back. “See ya, Chowder.”

Bitty’s quiet as they walk away from the room, at least until he gets the courage to ask—“Was that him?”

“Who?” Parse furrows his brow. “Oh—you mean the guy I’m sleeping with? Hah! No, no, Chowder’s just a friend. He’s like that with everyone. ‘Sides, he’s got a poorly-hidden girlfriend, though sometimes I wonder if there’s something going on with he and Dex and this other guy—ah, he’s right there actually,” he says, pointing to one of the smaller rooms they’re passing. Inside is a curly-haired guy, sitting at an impressively large writing desk with a laptop at his fingers. “That’s Nursey. He’s chill—and that’s his description of himself, not mine. He does all of our forgeries, and he’s hella good at it.

“That’s really cool.” Bitty nods appreciatively. He looks in at Nursey for a couple of moments but Nursey doesn’t look up, so they move on down the hallway

Parse points at a man a couple windows down. “There’s Ransom. He’s Holster’s roommate. He knows more ways to kill a person than any other agent I’ve ever met, so if you’re feeling creative, hit him up.”

Bitty blinks. “Sounds kinda—terrifying.” But then Ransom looks up and sees them and gives a very genial wave, and Bitty feels reassured.

“That’s actually everyone on our floor, except—huh, I bet he’s over here,” Parse leads Bitty around three corners before they reach a medium-sized room with an actual window to the outdoors. Inside are three separate messy desks, along with a guy with long hair, a bushy moustache, and—

“Um,” Bitty says. Because the guy is in his boxers.

Parse smirks at Bitty’s expression. “That’s Shitty. You’ll probably get used to the nudity, but if it bothers you then just tell him. He’ll put clothes on.”

Bitty only has time to think ‘ _ah, the one who was protective over Lardo’_ before Parse pushes open the door.

Shitty looks up from where he’s seated at the center desk. “Oy, Parse! Long time no see—hey, is this a frog?”

“Righto.” Parse nods, thumping his hand on top of Bitty’s head. “This is Bitty.”

“Aww, damn! If I’d known you were bringing a frog around, I would’ve put some clothes on, sheesh,” Shitty says, but there’s a twinkle in his eye as he wheels over to the left-hand desk and rifles through a stack of papers. “How’s it goin’, brah?”

“It’s, um. Interesting,” Bitty says, trying to keep a straight face.

Shitty bursts into laughter. “Please let me know if I’m making you uncomfortable, man.”

Bitty flushes, shaking his head. “Um, just a little? But it’s not a problem!”

“Everyone deserves to feel sexually comfortable in their environment.” Shitty wags a finger at him before resuming in his paper shuffling. “Remember that. Ah—found it!” He pulls a sheaf of papers out, holding it up toward Parse. “Zimms will want this filled out for him, I’m assuming.”

Parse takes the packet, skimming the front page. “Ah, right. Sounds great. I’ll take him up to have a chat with payroll later too.”

Bitty blinks at him. “Uhm, payroll?”

“Yeah, so we can get your salary logged—“

“Wait. You mean I’m getting _paid_ for this?”

“Uh. Yeah?” Parse furrows his brow. “Of course you are. I mean, sure, we recruited you kinda… unconventionally, but you still have to get hired and all that.”

“Against the law otherwise,” Shitty nods solemnly.

Bitty lets out a sharp laugh. “Against the law,” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, yeah. Technically the government knows about us, which means they can threaten inspections, even if they never have. We’ve gotta keep sharp about it all,” Shitty explains.

“God. Wow,” Bitty breathes. The _government_ knows. He’s getting _paid_. He’s not sure what to think of it—this day keeps getting stranger and stranger. “How do they know? I mean—isn’t this illegal?”

“Well, I could go through a whole lot of legal mumbo-jumbo that I’m sure you don’t wanna hear about, but basically it amounts to the government overlooking our operation as long as they can call in a couple of favors every now and then. Very hush-hush. At any rate, we don’t advertise; the media would have a field day if they ever found out.” Shitty leans back in his chair.

“All right,” Bitty says slowly. “Um. Are we still in Canada?”

Shitty and Parse both stare at him for a confused second before looking at each other and laughing. “Shit, no, Bits. Forgot that I never told you—we’re in the US. Hmm, I probably shouldn’t tell you exactly where, or risk getting in trouble, but.” Parse shrugs.

“Good old America.” Shitty twists his moustache. “Corruption and all. At any rate, I don’t wanna hold you two up if you’re touring, right?”

They exchange cheerful goodbyes, and Bitty marvels at just how _nice_ everyone has seemed. Well, there’s Zimms, but Bitty reckons that being gruff kind of comes with the job. Parse had said Zimms was his boss, right? And Parse is—well, _was_ —higher ranked than anyone else on their floor, so that must mean that Zimms is… up there, rank-wise. It sounds stressful to Bitty. He kind of doesn’t blame him for seeming pretty pissed off the one time that they’d met.

Parse shows him a few more rooms after that, but they don’t stop in to talk to anyone else. One of the rooms has what looks like a complete conference set-up, and another is full of people practicing hand-to-hand combat. Yet another area is filled with chairs and what looks like a small collection of reference books.

“All of this furniture is moveable,” Parse notes. “So, if you want your own office or practice area or whatever, that can be done pretty easily. You remember Nursey from before?” Bitty briefly brings up the image of the curly haired guy in his head before nodding. “He moves his desk to a new place every day, which is a bit overboard in my opinion, but hey. Do whatever makes you the most productive.” Parse shrugs.

They’ve woven their way nearly to the entrance at this point when they walk past a room with another window to the outdoors. Its door is cracked open, and in it is an odd collection of half-painted easels and strange metal sculptures, and—“Oh, Lardo!” Bitty recognizes her through the glass.

Lardo looks up, then grins. “Aww, hey Bitty! Someone got ya through to Zimms?” She winks at Parse.

“I think most of it was his fault,” Parse jerks his thumb toward Bitty as he pulls the door to Lardo’s studio all the way open. “He’s too damn nice for his own damn good.”

“Says the guy who refused to kill me,” Bitty says.

“Touché.” Parse chuckles, and Lardo gives them both a weird look.

“That’s, uh, a little morbid, don’t you think?” Her eyebrows shoot up.

Bitty looks at Parse and they both shrug. “Kinda helped to keep me from freaking out last week,” Bitty admits.

“Oh, good.” Parse looks a little relieved.

“What, you didn’t know?”

“Nah, I was kinda worried I was making it worse on you.” Parse claps him briefly on the shoulder. “I’m sort of bad at keeping things serious.”

“You were fine,” Bitty says, smiling softly, but then he flushes upon noticing that Lardo is staring at them.

“That was very heartfelt, dudes. Now, could you kindly take your feelings and get them out of my studio?” She crosses her arms, but then she starts laughing so Bitty takes it that she can’t be too offended.

“All right, all right, we’ll get out of your hair in a minute,” Parse says, laughing. “I did wanna ask you a favor though—I’m not entirely sure management is gonna let me go out and buy him some clothes, so would you mind—?”

“An excuse to go shopping? Hell, yeah.” Lardo grins, then looks Bitty over. “What do ya like to wear?”

“Um. Not what Zimms wears,” Bitty blurts out, and Lardo and Parse both laugh at him. He looks down at the t-shirt he’s wearing—Parse’s shirt, which is way too long on him—and tries to decide what would be best to ask for. “Uhm, I wear—well, I used to wear button-downs a lot at home, but I dunno if that would be practical if I’m gonna be moving around a lot and it’s hot out? So maybe some tank tops? And, um, shorts?” He wonders if it’s okay to dress—well, as if he’s openly gay, here. Zimms had said that everyone knows about Parse liking boys, so maybe they won’t care if Bitty does too?

“I can do all of that.” Lardo nods, pulling a pencil from behind her ear and jotting something down on a spare scrap of paper. “Maybe some khakis too, to go with the dress shirts?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.” Bitty smiles. “Thank you so much!”

“No problem! It’s gonna be pretty damn fun to dress you up,” Lardo says, and when she looks back up there’s a wicked glint in her eye.

“Uh,” Bitty says.

Parse snorts. “She’s just scaring you. She’s got a great eye for that kinda thing, no worries.”

“Aww, Parse, I’m touched. Now get out of here before I gag on all the sweetness.” Lardo quirks an eyebrow.

Bitty and Parse both laugh, and Bitty looks around at all the sculptures in the room as they step toward the door. “Um—before I go, can I ask… Why all the art?”

Lardo opens her mouth to answer, but Parse beats her to the punch, putting a finger to his mouth to shush him. “Don’t disturb the balance, Bitty! No one discusses the art.” He manages to keep a completely serious expression for about three seconds before it cracks into a shit-eating grin.

Lardo squints at him. “I _will_ throw something at you, Parser,” she says.

“Leaving!” Parse edges out of the room, snickering.

Lardo snorts, shaking her head at him through the glass and turning back to Bitty. “Anyway, Parse is ridiculous, which I’m sure you know. It helps me focus, is all.” She shrugs. “Besides, I work under Zimms too, and he lets me do whatever as long as I get my shit done.”

“Sounds—nice,” Bitty says, smiling at her.

“Yeah, bro. It really is. Ah, I think Parse misses you.” She glances meaningfully through the panes of the wall, and Bitty turns to see Parse pulling a sad face.

Bitty laughs. “Thank you again,” he says, and Lardo waves a hand at him as he joins Parse in the hall.

He doesn’t miss the strange expression on her face as Parse nudges him with his elbow just outside the room.

Parse grins at him. “Didja miss me?”

Bitty rolls his eyes, unable to stop himself from dissolving into laughter. “It was literally one minute, Parse. Oh my God, though, I agree with Lardo. You’re ridiculous.”

“You like it.” Parse waggles his eyebrows.

“Shush.” Bitty’s body heats, and he hopes the way Parse is making his heart flutter isn’t showing on his face.

Parse leads him down the hall, resuming his professional demeanor, and Bitty’s relieved. “That’s about it for the training center tour,” Parse says. “I skipped the room where you’ll be training with me, but we’ll head over there now.”

He tugs Bitty down one of the walkways that Bitty’s pretty sure they’d been through before, but they take a left instead of a right at the crossroads, leading to yet another hallway full of glass-walled rooms. Parse opens a door halfway down. “This is the small blades room,” he explains, and Bitty follows, gazing around the area as Parse closes the door behind him.

No one’s in there, surprisingly enough. There are a few small targets set up at one end of the room, along with a collection of beat-up practice dummies on stands. There’s also a row of chairs lining the edge, but most interestingly, the wall closest to the door houses a series of metal cabinets, which Parse heads towards immediately.

“Here’s where all the knives are kept. This one has all the practice knives in it.” He pulls open the doors, revealing a shiny array of blades of multiple sizes. “They’re dull, but you can still bruise yourself if you’re not careful, so watch out for that. The other cabinets have real blades in them. Obviously they’re locked,” he says, gesturing at the padlocks across the doors, “So you’ll have to get the key if you want to use them, but we’re not going to worry about that yet. ‘Sides, I have a key anyway.”

Bitty eyes all of the knives, stepping up to the cabinet. He recognizes many of the shapes from the knife-wielding manual he’s read most of, but they’re bigger than he’d expected. “Can I—?” he extends his hand toward a medium-bladed knife with a thin handle.

“Sure. Pick it up and test the weight.”

Bitty pulls it from the rack. The metal is heavier than he’d expected, and it adds a heftiness to the weapon that makes this seem all the more real. “So, um. What do I do?”

“Hmm,” Parse considers the targets across the room. He reaches into the cabinet and pulls out a similar dull knife for his own use, shutting the doors behind him. “How about I demonstrate some basic techniques for you to practice, and we go from there?”

Parse shows him how to hold it, then demonstrates the correct stabbing and slashing motions on a dummy. Bitty learns where the best places to aim are, and what to do if his knife gets stuck (“Although,” Parse says, “Preferably you’d have multiple on hand.”)

And then Parse sits to the side and watches Bitty practice, pen scratching on some of the papers Shitty had given him. “What’s that?” Bitty asks after a few sets of movements, panting and leaning against the wall.

“Your basic paperwork. I’m filling out your skills info. I put ‘baking’ in special talents—wonder if that’ll ever come in handy?” Parse smirks at him.

Bitty crosses his arms. “I’ll have you know that I’m a _wonderful_ baker and that bribing people with baked goods is a perfectly acceptable persuasion technique.”

Parse raises his eyebrows approvingly. “Huh,” he says, and then he writes ‘bribery’ down right next to the word ‘baking’.

Bitty is exhausted by the time they leave the training center. They’d eaten lunch mid-day, but other than that and a side trip to payroll, Bitty had wanted to keep practicing, fueled by the terror ever-present in the back of his mind that someone is going to look at him and say, “ _We lied. You’re not good enough._ ”

But no one does, and God, he’s so, so glad.

He nearly falls asleep at dinner, enough that Parse has to nudge him with his elbow to get him to stand up and head back to his room. Bitty yawns as they walk up the trail to the living quarters. “Hey, Parse?”

“Yeah?”

"Everyone else I met today—they all had specialties, right? What’s yours?”

“Huh? Oh, knives. Like you.”

“Oh.” Bitty feels warm. “So I’m kinda learning from the expert, right?”

“I wouldn’t say _the_ expert,” Parse says, laughing. “Though to be fair, not many people use the rooms these days. And I _am_ pretty good at it, if I do say so myself, so I probably would’ve ended up training you even if you were recruited through normal means.”

Bitty’s tired. That must be why he yawns again, why he opens his mouth and mumbles, “I’m glad I met you.”

Parse stops walking.

Bitty turns around to stare at him, feeling a sinking in his stomach like lead. “Um—Parse?”

Parse covers his mouth with a hand. “God fucking damnit,” he mutters. “Please—fuck. You don’t mean that.”

“I kind of do.” Bitty looks away. He sort of wants to cry, now.

“Bits. You’ve literally been inches from death _twice_ because we met.”

“So?” Bitty says stubbornly, because Lord, he likes Parse so fucking much, and now it’s exploding in his chest, all the feelings he’s been trying to hold back.

Parse doesn’t seem to know how to respond, and after a moment, he just starts walking again. They make it all the way up to their floor, to the point where their paths split before Parse takes ahold of Bitty’s wrist and pulls him into a hug.

“Oh—“ Bitty stumbles slightly and ends up leaning into him more than he’d meant to, but Parse doesn’t seem to mind.

“I’m really fucking glad I met you, okay?” Parse pulls back, staring him in the eyes. “And I’m so fucking glad you’re alive.”

A laugh bubbles in Bitty’s chest, tempered slightly by the melancholy he feels because Parse isn’t _his_ , this is just—friendship, maybe. “Me too.”

But then, for one heart-stopping second, Bitty realizes that Parse is staring at his lips.

Parse is going to kiss him.

Parse leans closer, oh _God_ —

But Bitty has to wrench himself away, even though he wants it so badly it’s choking him, fuck. “I—no,” he says, looking away, throat burning. “You won’t—we shouldn’t. You’ll be unhappy if we—yeah.” He shakes his head, and before Parse can respond, Bitty takes off down the hallway.

There’s someone in the room when Bitty walks in—Johnson, he assumes.

“H-hi,” Bitty says, suddenly aware of how flushed and out of breath he is.

Johnson doesn’t look up from his book, but he does nod in greeting. “Narrative a little bumpy? Man, that sucks. Although, I wouldn’t expect anything different from a complete AU, you know?”

His desk is angled in a way so that Bitty can’t quite see his face, and Bitty blinks at him. “Uh. Yeah,” he says slowly, looking away after a moment and slowly getting ready for bed.

xXx

The next three days are a haze of training and meals and more training. Bitty’s so, so tired, but he’s having trouble sleeping—the bed’s really damn uncomfortable, and Parse—Parse won’t meet his eyes.

Parse still shows him everything he needs to know with his knives, but their conversations otherwise come out stilted and Bitty can’t tell if Parse is just embarrassed or if he’s really trying to distance himself from Bitty. Either way, it _hurts_ , and part of Bitty wishes that he could’ve just let Parse kiss him—even though that would have fucked everything over even worse than what they’d done in the shower.

He tosses and turns in his bed for three helpless nights straight. On the fourth night, he’s lying wide awake when he hears a noise from across the room. Johnson slides out of his bed, coming over and tapping him on the shoulder, then motioning toward the door. Bewildered, Bitty gets up and follows him out of the room.

The hallway lights are bright in Bitty’s eyes as they walk down to the other end, enough that he can’t really focus on Johnson’s face. He wonders if he’s done something to annoy him, but he can’t think of what he might have done. At any rate, they reach Parse’s door before he can ask, and Bitty’s too tired to open his mouth when Johnson knocks on the door with three sharp raps.

Five tense heartbeats later, Parse opens it. He eyes both of them in confusion, stifling a yawn and asking, “What’s up?”

Johnson gives Bitty a little nudge in the back. “He can’t sleep.”

“Oh,” Parse says, staring at Bitty. His eyes look sorry. “You wanna come in?”

“Yeah,” Bitty says, too worn down to resist.

He bids Johnson goodnight and follows Parse into the room, feeling all of a sudden like he’s home. He’d lived here for a week, after all—it’s only natural.

But he’d forgotten how much the room smells like Parse, like the warm body that had hugged him every time Bitty had needed it the most.

Parse turns to face him, raising an eyebrow, and Bitty sighs. “I’m so tired.”

“Want to sleep?” Parse asks him. He’s softer right now, like all of his edges have been removed, and Bitty finds himself nodding desperately.

They crawl into bed together. And then, without hesitating, Parse pulls Bitty so that they’re pressed together, Parse spooning him from behind. Bitty’s heart beats wildly for a full minute before he manages to calm down and relax into the warm way Parse’s arm is slung over his waist, the little puffs of Parse’s breath on the back of his neck.

And he’s so _happy_. This is so _nice_. He wishes he could stay here in Parse’s arms forever, God.

“I missed you,” he whispers, so quietly he’s not even sure it’d come out of his own mouth.

But Parse nods against his back and murmurs, “Me, too.” And it’s so damn weird because they see each other every day, but this—this is special, at least to Bitty.

He sleeps soundly that night.


	4. Chapter 4

“Yo,” Shitty says, sticking his head into the knife training room. “I just met with Zimms, and he told me to tell you that he wants Bitty’s paperwork.”

Kent had been working on expanding Bitty’s horizons with the different kinds of knives, but gives Shitty a prompt nod. “Go ahead and start on your daily practice. This shouldn’t take long,” he says to Bitty, handing Bitty his regular combat knife and motioning toward the dummies.

“No problem.” Bitty’s lips curve into a smile. Kent lets himself stare for just a second, reveling in how nice it feels to have Bitty smiling at him like that, eyes a warm brown even under the fluorescence of the lighting. Fuck, Bitty’s—gorgeous.

It almost makes him sad that he has to leave to see Jack, but he leaves anyway, though he can’t resist a last peek through the glass to watch Bitty start his set.

Kent very rarely meets with Jack in his actual office. They meet up for dinner every week under the guise of sharing progress reports anyway. Today, though, Kent makes his way to the hidden stairwell in one of the corners of the training building and climbs up to Jack’s windowed workspace. It’s walled off from the chaos of the rest of the building, and it looks over the secluded grounds of their complex, grass and sparse buildings and sometimes people walking around. Kent is always a little taken aback by how small their world is every time he sees the view, dominated by the sprawling mess of trees just past the edge of the grounds.

“I’ve got the papers,” Kent hands them over, prompting Jack to look up. “He signed everything, and we took a trip to payroll his first day. Everything should be good.”

Jack nods, looking them over before setting them on the corner of his impeccable desk. “How’s he doing?”

“Fairly well. We haven’t sparred yet, but he’s picking up on the knife strokes pretty quickly, and he’s hella fast. Otherwise—he managed to sweet-talk himself into the kitchen the other night. He made a pie. I think the cooks are in love with him.”

Jack snorts at that, leaning back in his chair. “And how are you?” He cocks a brow at Kent.

“What do you mean?”

Jack licks his lips and turns away. “Emotionally.”

Kent feels himself flush. “Um. I’m—I’m okay. He’s been sleeping in my bed again,” he admits quietly, because he’s fairly sure that’s the kind of information that Jack wants to know.

It’s only because he knows Jack so well that he catches the disappointment that flashes over Jack’s face. “Did you—?” He swallows audibly.

“Have sex with him? Nah.” Kent shakes his head, walking over to squeeze Jack’s shoulder. He leaves his hand there because it feels nice, and also because for once, Jack doesn’t push it away, not like he’d used to back when their relationship was still rocky. “I—I wouldn’t have felt right. Fuck, I—well, I almost kissed him, but he ran away.” Kent laughs a little ruefully. “He knows I’m sleeping with someone. I think he feels guilty.”

“I wasn’t lying when I said you could sleep with him, you know,” Jack says, staring up at him.

“I know.” Kent fidgets slightly. He’s thought about it more than once over the last half-week, especially now that Bitty’s sleeping warm beside him every night, and the question he keeps coming back to is—“Why?”

“Because.” Jack sighs. “I can’t give you everything you need.”

Kent wants to tell him that Jack _is_ everything he needs, but that might not be true anymore, not with Bitty’s freckled face so tempting on his pillow every night. Instead he says, “Just because you don’t want to date me doesn’t mean I wouldn’t wanna be—I dunno. Exclusive?”

“I’m not gonna lie…” Jack reaches up, covering Kent’s hand on his shoulder with his own. “It makes me—happy that you’d do that, for me. But I don’t think it’s fair for me to be the only person in your romantic life just because I’m jealous, especially if you think someone—if you think _Bitty_ is cute. And, fuck, and he’s goddamned perfect, and… you like him, don’t you?”

“Jack—so what? I like him. But not as much as I like you,” Kent says, itching to hug him. But Jack doesn’t look like he wants to be touched right now. Kent’s surprised Jack’s even still holding his hand.

Maybe Jack is letting him in, little by little. The thought threatens to comfort and crush him all at once.

“Why not?” Jack asks, frown deepening.

“Jack, are you—do you— _fuck_ ,” Kent swears, shaking his head. “You’re the most important person in my fucking life, okay? I like him, but if I have to trade _you_ to have him—it’s not fucking worth it.”

“Kenny,” Jack whispers, and Kent clenches his teeth against the nickname because he’s all but expecting this to lead into a dismissal, into Jack turning him down again.

Instead Jack stands, pushing his chair back so hard it slides a couple of feet. He fists his hands into Kent’s flannel and kisses him hard, their noses bumping before their mouths can connect properly, sloppy and wet with spit. Kent groans into it, glad as hell that no one can see them in here, pressing himself into Jack for as long will Jack will let him.

Not too long, it turns out—it’s only a minute before Jack tugs himself away. “We’re—at work,” he pants.

“Hot.” Kent winks, and Jack swats at his shoulder.

“ _Kent_.”

“You’re calling me Kent again.” Kent feels a breathless grin sliding onto his face.

“Only because you’re calling me Jack,” Jack grumbles. “And we’re not in public.”

“God, I would hope not,” Kent says, snorting as he throws an arm around Jack’s shoulder, leaning against him. “Do _you_ think Bitty’s cute?”

Jack turns red. “Um. Yeah.”

Kent waggles his eyebrows. “Do you think he’s ‘goddamned perfect’?”

“For _you_ ,” Jack says, trying in vain to push him away.

Kent doesn’t let him, pressing a wet kiss to Jack’s cheek as Jack squirms. “Mhmm. He’s _so_ your fuckin’ type.”

“Whatever.” Jack rolls his eyes. “Invite him over for dinner tomorrow night.”

“Um… what?” Kent blinks.

“I might as well get to know him, if you like him.” Jack shrugs, staring down at his desk.

“Well, shit. You’re being _nice_.” Kent pokes him in the chest. “Fine. I’ll invite him.”

“All right.”

“You gonna be thinking about sex the entire time?” Kent gives him a purposely shit-eating grin, and Jack’s eyebrows fly up.

“Shut it, Parse.”

Kent does shut it, right up against Jack’s mouth until Jack is groaning around his tongue.

This time, Jack doesn’t push him away.

xXx

Jack opens his door to find Kent—and damn, he’ll have to call him Parse all night, won’t he?—as well as Bitty. Bitty looks just about as nervous as Jack feels, and Jack suddenly kind of regrets inviting him because already he can feel the awkwardness permeating the air.

“Come in,” he says, stepping back so they can enter. Something smells… nice.

“I made pie.” Bitty gives him a little smile, and oh, that must be why the air smells like apples.

Pie isn’t exactly _healthy_ , but Jack has to admit that it sounds really good right now. “Put it on the counter,” he says, sighing.

Bitty gives him an odd look. “Um—do you not want it? I mean—you’re not allergic or something, are you? I didn’t ask, I’m sorry—“

“Don’t worry about it. Apple’s his favorite. He’s probably just worrying about the ‘nutritional value.’” Parse lowers his voice to mimic Jack’s, and Jack shoots him a glare.

“Parse.”

“All right, all right.” Parse raises an eyebrow. “Relax, yeah?”

Jack’s going to have a really fucking hard time relaxing, it turns out, because he sees Parse touch Bitty three times before they’ve even started eating, little nudges that seem too intimate to be casual. Jack picks at his chicken and tries to ignore the growing knot of grumpiness in his chest.

Okay, yeah. He’s more than a little jealous. He really hadn’t _wanted_ to be jealous—fuck, he’d even _told_ Kent that Kent could be with Bitty if he wanted, because that’s probably better for Kent in the long run anyway. But Jack hadn’t expected to feel so _sour_ about it, damnit.

And then halfway through dinner, Bitty gives him another reason not to relax.

“Thanks for dinner,” Bitty says, beaming at him. “You’re a better cook than Parse is.”

“Hey!” Parse objects.

Bitty laughs. “He _is_.”

“Well, thank you.” Jack swallows his bite of chicken, mouth suddenly feeling dry. He takes a drink of water, and he’d promised himself that he really, truly wasn’t going to think about the last time he’d fucked Parse, when they’d talked about touching Bitty the whole damn time. But Bitty’s looking at him warmly, even though Jack has been unfairly annoyed with him ever since he’d walked in the door, and then—and then Bitty leans over and pats him on the knee.

It feels nice. _God_.

“You need to eat more protein, Bitty,” Jack grumbles, leaning forward to transfer another piece of chicken onto Bitty’s empty plate. After all, Bitty hadn’t really had that much on it in the first place, so Jack feels entirely justified.

Bitty gives him a look that’s half amusement and half annoyance, but he picks up his fork and keeps eating anyway.

And then, possibly because the universe hates Jack, Bitty drops a bit of chicken onto the table. Bitty picks it up and puts it on the side of his plate, and it would’ve been an unremarkable event except that then he reaches his hand up and absent-mindedly sucks the sauce off of his fingers, the slightest hint of a pink tongue peeking out as he listening to Kent telling a story about Lardo picking out Bitty’s clothes the other day.

It’s like he has _no idea_ what he’s doing.

A clear spike of arousal shoots through Jack’s groin, and damnit, he really fucking doesn’t want to deal with that. He doesn’t even know _how_ to deal with it, this heavy want that’s building in his body as Bitty laughs at one of Kent’s jokes. Fuck, Jack and had told Kent to sleep with him—that doesn’t translate into _Jack_ sleeping with him, no matter how much Kent’s voice taunts him in his memories, asking him if he wants to fucking watch—

“All right, Zimms?”

“Yeah.” Jack looks down at his plate. He chances a quick glance at Kent while he spears a wedge of roasted potato on his fork, and Kent’s eyebrows are raised knowingly—well, damn. There goes keeping it a secret. “Just tired.”

They finish their dinner, and Jack tries very hard not to stare at Bitty has he cuts into the pie.

It’s really good.

He makes himself say so, even though the way Bitty lights up at his compliment makes this _so much worse_ —“Thank you,” Bitty says, the words dancing off of his tongue.

Jack is just about ready to go hide in his room (and maybe possibly jerk off while he’s at it) when Parse stretches and says, “Hey, Bitty, you wanna head back to the room? I’ll let you borrow my key—Zimms and I need to talk about work stuff.”

Bitty’s face goes bright red. Jack wonders why until he realizes—oh. He probably doesn’t know that Jack knows that he’s still sleeping in Parse’s room. Well, um. Jack should probably act surprised, then—“His bed’s comfy, isn’t it?”

Both Parse and Bitty turn to stare at him. “Um!” Bitty squeaks.

“Not—not that I would know,” Jack hastily amends. Because he doesn’t. He and Parse have only ever hooked up in here, so it’s not like it’s a lie. But it sounds like one, so he adds, “I mean, why else would you be sleeping there?”

Kent’s eyebrows fly up, and he snorts. “Rude,” he says, reaching over and flicking Jack in the arm. “He was having trouble sleeping in his room.”

That, Jack hadn’t known. He’d just assumed Bitty was sleeping there because of his poorly-hidden crush on Kent. But now Jack feels a little bad for jumping to conclusions, because it’s not even fair that he’s been so cold to Bitty—Bitty’s not exactly _trying_ to hit on Kent, from what Jack can tell. And there’s the fact that Bitty had apparently run away when Kent had so much as tried to kiss him.

Well, damn.

“That’s too bad,” Jack murmurs honestly, because he’s sorry and also because insomnia is kind of a dick when you’ve got work to do.

Bitty’s flush is starting to fade. “I—you won’t, um, tell anyone?”

Jack frowns. “Why?”

And Bitty’s flush comes back again, spreading straight down his neck.

Kent huffs a laugh. “Damn, this is awkward. Bitty—um. Zimms knows? That I’m sleeping with someone, so.”

“Oh!” Bitty blinks, looking as innocent as can be. “In that case—well, um. I just—“ He sighs. “I don’t want them to find out and think it’s something it’s not? Because if I were them, I’d feel real bad.” He worries at his lip, shrugging.

Jack’s heart gives a funny lurch in his chest. And fuck. Jack can’t hate him, can he? No matter how jealous he ends up, Bitty’s too _nice_. He obviously feels guilty about all of this—he’s concerned about Jack’s feelings, even though Bitty has no idea that Jack’s the one Kent’s sleeping with. Even though Bitty’s crush on Kent is written on his face as clear as day, now that Jack knows to look for it.

And worse than anything—Jack is _attracted_ to him. He’s been hard since Bitty had sucked the sauce off of his fingers, and Jack can’t do a damn thing about it.

He licks his lips and says, “It’s okay. I won’t say anything.”

“Okay,” Bitty says, smiling at him before hiding a yawn in his hand. “I’ll skedaddle, then—Parse, you’ve got the key?”

And then Bitty takes the room key and leaves, and now Jack’s alone with Kent, the remnants of his feelings lingering heavy over the table.

Kent says, “So. Bitty, huh?”

“I thought we were going to talk business.” Jack looks away, even though he’d _known_ that Kent was going to bring this up.

“This is business.” Kent smirks. “Interpersonal relationships between agents.”

“Business, my ass,” Jack grumbles.

Kent waggles his eyebrows. “Speaking of your ass—” He winks.

Jack blushes. “Kent.”

“He really is your type, isn’t he?”

“Maybe.”

“You turned on?”

There’s no use lying. Jack knows that Kent knows. “Yeah,” he sighs.

Kent stretches. “Now you know how I feel. I’ve gotta deal with that every fuckin’ night.”

“Kent. I told you that you could sleep with him already.” Jack crosses his arms, and Kent rolls his eyes at that.

“Don’t try and tell me you weren’t jealous tonight. And you know it would get ten times fucking worse if I actually did anything with him.” Kent leans forward, pushing his plate out of the way.

Jack sighs. Fuck. “I’m—I’m working on it. I’ll try not to be, really.”

Looking away, Kent swallows. “’Sides, what makes you think he’d say yes? Shit, I tried to kiss him and he ran away. He’s not gonna say yes, not when he’s feeling so guilty about you.”

“Then tell him that I’m breaking up with you.”

Hurt creeps onto Kent’s face. “Wait—fuck. Really?”

Oh, God. Jack hides his face in his hands. “No, not really. Sorry.”

Kent lets out a harsh sigh. “You scared me,” he mutters. Jack slides his leg so that his knee presses up against Kent’s, and Kent maybe looks a little less wounded. “Uh, anyway—that’d be lying then, wouldn’t it?” Slowly, Kent slides his hand across the table, palm up towards Jack.

Jack takes it, heart thudding heavy in his chest as he twines their fingers together, whispering a quiet _I’m sorry_ through touch. “I can—I dunno, write him a note or something saying that it’s okay.”

“You think he’d believe it?” Kent asks, arching a brow. “He’d think I was forging it, just trying to get into his pants.”

“Well, you are, aren’t you?” Jack smirks softly.

“Shush.” Kent gives his hand a squeeze. “Bet you’d try if you were me.”

“If I were you,” Jack swallows thickly, “I’d be more concerned with getting into _my_ pants right now.”

Kent gives a small, incredulous laugh, pushing his chair back and standing. Then he walks over and lowers himself sideways into Jack’s lap, looping his arms around Jack’s neck. “And what if I already know I can get into your pants?”

“Then you should get a move on it,” Jack says, trying to sound stern but ruining it when he grins.

Kent leans down and kisses him, nipping tenderly at Jack’s bottom lip, and Jack’s hands slide around to grasp his hip, his thigh. It never gets old, the slow fire in his veins whenever Kent touches him, and sometimes Jack still can’t believe that he’s allowed to have this.

Kent pulls back and gives him a devious grin. “You made me talk about him last time, you know.” He trails one of his hands down Jack’s chest, then lower, grasping Jack’s shoulder for leverage and slipping it under the waistband of Jack’s sweatpants. Jack can’t help rolling his hips when Kent wraps his fingers around his cock, stroking firmly, so slowly that Jack lets out a whine.

“S-so?” he mumbles, pulling Kent closer so he can press a kiss to his cheek. The proximity makes the angle of Kent’s hand a little weird, so Kent shoves Jack’s pants and boxers down just enough so that he can pull out Jack’s cock.

“Your turn.” Kent winks cheekily. “He’s your type, isn’t he?”

Jack clunks his head back against his chair, groaning. “Fine. Yes.”

“I saw you looking at him.” Kent’s voice comes out rough. He swipes his thumb through the pre-cum at the head of Jack’s cock and pulls his fist back down with a twist of his hand.

“I’m sorry,” Jack says immediately, and Kent fixes him with a hard look.

“Don’t say that. It’s not like—well. You’re not the one who tried to kiss him.”

Jack squirms against Kent’s hand. “I really wouldn’t mind.”

“You say that, but.”

Jack feels his face flushing, and he knocks his forehead against Kent’s shoulder. “You know—what you were talking about last time?”

“What do you mean?” Kent presses the words into his scalp.

“About—watching.”

“Yeah?”

“I’d do—that,” Jack says, then distracts himself by tugging at the collar of Kent’s shirt and sucking a hickey into his collarbone.

Kent laughs huskily, voice vibrating through Jack’s lips. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Jack pulls away, averts his eyes. “It’d be—sexy.”

Kent shivers at that, cupping Jack’s face in his palm so that Jack’s looking at him, a warm smirk pricking at Kent’s lips. “You wouldn’t wanna join?”

“ _Oh_ —” Jack moans as Kent speeds his hand up, then slows down again, forcing Jack away from the edge of his orgasm. “I mean—I dunno. I’d feel—weird.”

“Because he would be there?”

“Because _I_ would be there. I don’t want to—interrupt.”

“You wouldn’t be,” Kent says, and kisses him softly. “I mean it. Shit, I’d really like it if you were there, so.”

Jack smiles. “Thanks, Kenny.”

Kent shudders. “You know—when you say my name like that—” He swallows, looking away. “It makes me feel—fuck. I dunno. It makes me feel really good.” He gives Jack a trembly smile, and Jack surges forward and kisses him, warmth swirling deep in his chest.

Jack lets Kent fuck him that night.

Kent’s got him on his hands and knees, three of Kent’s fingers fucking into Jack’s ass, when Jack looks over his shoulder and says, “I don’t think he would want me there.”

Kent frowns, pulling his fingers out and wiping them on the sheets. Jack glares at him but lets it be—they’re getting lube all over the place anyway, and at any rate he should do laundry soon. “Why do you say that?” Kent crawls up next to him, and Jack gingerly sits up.

“I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m an asshole,” Jack says wryly, just before Kent kisses him, sliding his clean hand into Jack’s hair.

“Doesn’t mean he can’t think you’re hot.” Kent arches a brow.

Jack sighs, twisting so he can grip the headboard. “I’d rather it not be a hate-fuck.”

Kent laughs, shaking his head. He rips open a condom wrapper and rolls it carefully on. “It wouldn’t be a hate-fuck. Have you even talked to him? He’s like, too fucking nice, almost. I dunno if he could hate anyone.”

“Still…” Jack sighs. “I don’t want to have sex with him if he doesn’t like me.”

Kent pats Jack’s hip soothingly, positioning himself behind him. “Fair,” he says, and then, “Want me to ask?”

Jack turns around, his cheeks going red. “What—if he wants to have sex? _No_.”

“No, not that!” Kent chokes out a laugh. “I mean—if he likes you or not.”

“Maybe.” Jack turns back toward the headboard. “You gonna fuck me or not?”

“Hey, it’s not every day you let me do this. I’m just admiring you,” Kent says, and it sounds like he’s trying to joke, but it comes out genuine in a way that makes Jack’s chest burn.

“Need you, Kenny,” Jack nearly whispers, and Kent acquiesces, letting out a guttural whine as he presses inside. “Nngh—God, fuck.” Jack coughs, and Kent smooths a hand over his back.

“Jack?”

Jack nods. “’M fine. Fuck me.”

Kent slides out, presses in deeper this time, until his hips meet Jack’s ass and Jack’s gripping the headboard so hard his knuckles are white. “God, you—Jack, you’re so fucking _tight_ , fuck,” Kent swears, pulling out, snapping his hips back in.

Closing his eyes, Jack rolls his hips up into it, because he knows Kent likes it. Jack can’t come like this—he gets too sensitive, and that makes him feel really fucking vulnerable. But Kent reaches his arm around and strokes his dick anyway, mumbling things like ‘ _so good, so good for me_ ’ into Jack’s skin.

Jack doesn’t like to admit it, because this makes him feel raw in a way that wouldn’t be all right if it were anyone except Kent, but—he loves this. He loves Kent ramming into him, the way pleasure-pain sparks all up and down his spine, loves how Kent can make him feel good even though he’s nowhere near close to orgasming. And when Kent comes, Jack can feel it, can feel the way Kent’s cock thickens inside him and the way Kent can’t stop himself from biting down into the skin of Jack’s back.

Kent doesn’t allow himself to collapse after that, just helps Jack roll over before sliding down and sucking Jack into the heat of his mouth. Jack is sticky and sore and every nerve ending on his body is on fire, his body thrumming with the warmth in Kent’s eyes as he bobs his head up and down. Kent’s eyes are blue tonight, almost as bright as Jack’s own, and then Kent reaches up and links his fingers with Jack’s and Jack is so, so close.

“ _Kent_ ,” he sighs quietly.

“Come on, come for me, baby,” Kent says, and Jack groans, feeling himself stiffen and— _oh_. He can never quite stop himself from thrusting up into Kent’s mouth when he comes, as his orgasm hits him like a full-body blow, but Kent knows to expect it now, moving with Jack’s hips so he doesn’t choke, swallowing around him until Jack is whimpering in frustration because it’s too much.

Jack wishes Kent didn’t have to get dressed afterwards.

“You could stay,” he mumbles, looking away. He knows he sounds needy, but lately being with Kent has just made him want more, made him want Kent to sit in his office and talk with him at lunchtime and lie asleep in his bed at night.

“I told Bitty I’d be coming back. He’ll notice.” Kent sighs.

“I know.” Jack’s mouth twists. He’d figured as much.

“Wish I could.” Kent comes over and hugs him. “Another night. Promise.”

Jack kisses him, and Kent leans into it, holding on for longer than Jack had expected before pulling away. “You’ve been more affectionate lately,” Jack muses.

Kent laughs, pulling away and stepping toward the door. “Maybe it’s cuz I’m so fucking sexually frustrated all the time.”

“Huh. I thought we did something about that just now,” Jack retorts with a grin.

Kent snorts. “Thank God for that.”

Jack’s still smiling as Kent steps out the door, but deep down, Jack wonders if the affection is really just because Kent’s falling in love.

And even though Jack knows that he and Kent would never work out—Jack would hurt him again, he’s almost certain—he wishes more than anything that it wasn’t Bitty that Kent was falling in love with.

xXx

Bitty looks up from where he’s sitting on the bed, knees curled to his chest, when Parse walks into the room. Parse eyes him over and immediately frowns. “What’s wrong?”

Bitty swallows, and suddenly the ball of worries that’s coalesced in his brain over the past few hours feel foreign and silly. He speaks them anyway. “Zimms doesn’t like me, does he?”

“What?” Parse blinks at him, coming closer. “What do you mean?”

“I can tell.” Bitty sighs, looking away. “Parse—I want—I need him to like me. I just—what if he decides to kill me?” His voice squeaks up into oblivion at the end, and Parse’s brow furrows.

“Aww, no. Bits—he wouldn’t. I have it on very good authority that he does like you, and even if he didn’t, he wouldn’t kill you.” Parse kicks off his shoes and climbs onto the bed, and Bitty feels so relieved to fall into his arms that it almost distracts him from the anxiety in his stomach.

He squints at Parse. “Did he say that—that he likes me?”

“Yeah.” Parse nods, his thumb stroking the side of Bitty’s arm, and Bitty’s chest feels so, so tight. It isn’t a bad thing, not with Parse cuddling him, comforting him like this.

He swallows, breathing in Parse’s warmth as much as he can. It’s nice.

“You smell different,” he murmurs idly, and then he thinks about what he’d just said and freezes.

Parse says, “Ah, shit.”

Bitty pulls back to stare at him, takes in Parse’s mussed up hair and the beginnings of a hickey Bitty on his collarbone. Well, _fuck—_ “Oh my God. Wait. You’re— _Zimms_?”

“Fuck,” Parse groans. “I can’t really deny it, can I? So—yeah. He’s—well. We’re fucking.”

“I—“ Bitty starts, and then he lets out a moan of disbelief. “Aw, fuck. He knows we showered together. He knows I sleep in your _bed_.”

“He’s okay with it,” Parse says quickly, but Bitty shakes his head.

“How does he not hate me? _God_ , no wonder dinner was so awkward.” Bitty folds his arms around himself. “I’m an idiot.”

Parse leans over and puts his hands on Bitty’s shoulders. “Hey. Listen. You’re not an idiot, okay? If anyone’s an idiot, it’s me.”

Bitty laughs bitterly. “Sounds about right to me.”

“Ouch. Fuck.” Parse winces, and he pulls his hands away. “All right—look. He knew everything before he invited you over tonight, and he still invited you, didn’t he? And he’s—well, jealous, a little, but he’s not going to get you in trouble for that. He’s not that kind of guy. I promise.”

Bitty sighs, clunking his head down on his knees. Back when Parse’s lover was just a faceless enigma, it had been easier to pretend that being so close with Parse was okay. But Bitty _knows_ Zimms, had just eaten at his dinner table, and it somehow feels ten times more wrong to be cuddling in Parse’s bed right under Zimms’ nose. “You said he’s jealous?”

Parse snorts. “Umm—sort of.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—he’s jealous, but he said that—I dunno. It’s weird. He keeps giving me permission.”

“Permission?” Bitty tilts his head, and he’s surprised to see Parse turn very, very red. “You’re blushing,” he mumbles quietly.

“Uh. Yeah. I know,” Parse ducks his head. “He says I can, like. Do things with you, if you wanted.”

Bitty blinks at him—Lord, what in the world is going on? “Things like—sharing your bed?”

“Things like—” Parse swallows, eyeing Bitty furtively. “Things like kissing you.”

A rush of warmth spirals through Bitty’s veins, making the tips of his fingers feel prickly, _oh God_. “R-really? He said…?”

“Yeah. But—” Parse sighs. “I dunno.”

The stupid, bright spark of hope in Bitty’s chest dims. “You don’t want to.”

Parse’s jaw clenches. “I—fuck. I want to. But I don’t—I dunno. I really—Zimms is important to me. He’s not—like I said, we’re not dating. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh,” Bitty says, because that both makes him absurdly pleased and depresses him all at once. He turns away, staring out the window at the way the trees are obscuring the moon, trying to force his heartrate to slow. Parse and Zimms aren’t _together_. Even so, it’s strange that Zimms would be okay with Parse kissing Bitty, isn’t it? It just doesn’t make sense—if Bitty were Zimms, he’s not sure he’d want to share, especially since Zimms seems to care about Parse a lot. Bitty wouldn’t want it to be like this, at least, not with secrets coating every interaction they have, not without actually discussing everything with both of them.

But the fact of the matter is that Bitty isn’t Zimms. He doesn’t really get a choice on whether he gets to share or not, not if he really wants Parse. And he does, so much it’s constricting around his throat, making his hands clench in the comforter just to hold himself steady.

The more he turns it around in his head, the more he realizes he’s—okay with it, with the possibility of being with Parse even though Parse has Zimms too. Zimms isn’t entirely unattractive either, but Bitty shoves that thought out of his mind—that’s not even on the table, because he doesn’t even know if Zimms even likes him or not.

He doesn’t know how this happened. He’d simply been a small town boy from Georgia, fairly normal beyond his carefully hidden sexuality, and suddenly he’s been thrust into a tale full of assassins and hidden thoughts and hell, even a love triangle. He doesn’t know what to make of any of it, doesn’t know what to do with all of the feelings churning in his gut, some of them good but most of them bad because—

Because Parse isn’t going to kiss him, even if Zimms said it was all right.

He hates how disappointed that makes him feel.

“Hey.” Parse nudges his shoulder. “Bits… I don’t wanna hurt you. You know that, right?”

Bitty checks to make sure he’s not going to cry, stifles the ‘ _you already have’_ in his throat before he turns and looks back at Parse. “I know. It’s not your fault. I’m just—I’m just being silly.” Silly is an understatement. He _shouldn’t_ want to kiss Parse, but he does, he wants it so much, _God_.

Parse heaves a sigh. “It’s not— _that_ silly. I mean—you’re very kissable, you know. I wouldn’t—mind, if it wasn’t like this.”

Bitty lets out a startled laugh. _Parse wouldn’t mind kissing him_ , _hell._ “I—I’ve never kissed a boy before, you know?” It feels important to admit it. And his chances of it actually happening are growing slimmer and slimmer with every passing day, because he can already tell that falling for Parse is going to be something that will stick around for much longer than is healthy for his heart.

“Well, fuck.” Parse licks his lips. “I—you wanna?”

Bitty stares at him. _God, what?_ Of all the things Parse could have said—Lord. “You just—you said you weren’t gonna,” he points out, suddenly feeling breathless.

“I did, didn’t I?” Parse says ruefully. “But I didn’t—I don’t want you to be sad.”

“You think kissing me out of pity would make it any better?” Bitty snaps, and he can’t help that it comes out bitter. His emotions have flashed from hot to cold so many times in the last few minutes that he doesn’t know what to feel at all anymore—even if Parse has just fucking changed his mind, Bitty doesn’t _want_ it if it’s not _real_ —

“Is it out of pity if it’s because I really, really want to?” Parse’s response is soft, raw in a way that makes Bitty sure he’s telling the truth. _Oh._

Bitty feels too warm in his own skin—he’s on fire, burning up inside, and he doesn’t know how to stop it. “ _Parse._ Um. Do you? I mean, would you? If you really want to—oh God, yes. I, um. God. Please?” His last word is feeble, quiet, a plea that sits heavy in the short distance between them.

“Yeah?” Parse is leaning a little closer now, sliding his hand up Bitty’s arm.

Hiding his face in his hand because he’s blushing so badly it’s embarrassing, because _he wants this so much, oh God,_ Bitty swallows against the beating of his heart and asks, “What will Zimms think?”

“He might think it’s hot,” Parse whispers, like it’s a secret—and it probably is a secret, now that Bitty thinks about it.

“You think—he would?” Bitty wants to at least feel Parse’s skin if nothing else, so he lets himself lean against him, presses his face into the side of Parse’s neck. If Bitty looks down, he can see the hickey that Zimms left, the one he’s sure wasn’t there this morning—and if he looks up, there’s Parse’s eyes, his nose, his lips.

“He would.” Parse nods against him, sliding his hands down so they’re resting on Bitty’s hips. “This okay?”

“I—um. Yeah.” Bitty shivers a little. “I’m kinda—this is so embarrassing.”

“Want me to do it?”

Bitty’s voice cracks as it comes out of his mouth. “Ye-es,” he sighs.

And then Parse catches Bitty’s chin with his thumb and tilts his face upwards until they’re so fucking close that Bitty can barely breathe. Parse leans closer, closer, and Bitty shuts his eyes— _oh_.

The first touch of Parse’s lips is soft, tentative, so dizzying that Bitty has to remind himself to move. He’s kissed girls before, back before he’d realized exactly why kissing had never really excited him, but this, _this_ is exhilarating and wonderful and Bitty’s clutching at the back of Parse’s shirt like a lifeline. Then Parse is opening his mouth and swiping his tongue against the gap in Bitty’s lips and Bitty opens for him, oh, _oh God_ —Bitty can’t hold himself back from whimpering, from pulling Parse closer, can’t do anything about the way he’s maddeningly hard in his shorts or the way his limbs are buzzing so much it feels like they’ve been electrified.

Slowly, Parse tilts him backward, guiding Bitty’s body down against the pillows and climbing on top of him. Bitty’s sure his entire face is red but he can’t bring himself to care, because he’s kissing—hell, he’s _making out_ with a boy, and that boy is Parse, and it’s killing him in an entirely different kind of way than he’d expected when he’d first woken up in that holding cell. Bitty whimpers again when Parse kisses him harder, more fiercely, and he feels Parse’s smirk against his lips, can the chuckle on Parse’s lips. Bitty pulls back, chest heaving and asks, “Are you laughin’ at me?”

Parse grins. “Nah,” he answers, kissing Bitty again, again, soft and slick and warm. “Well—maybe a little,” he says, pulling back again. “Oh, man—you’re so goddamned cute, fuck.”

“Oh?” Bitty raises a coy eyebrow, and he hadn’t realized till now that Parse is purposefully holding his hips up and away from Bitty’s own. “Having, um—a little trouble there?” And oh gosh, he can’t believe he’d just asked that—that was so sexual, Lord.

Parse laughs softly, pressing his forehead to Bitty’s. “Maybe, but. Probably shouldn’t go farther than this.”

“Yeah.” Bitty sighs, clenching his teeth around his disappointment. The melancholy threatens to press around him again, but he pushes it away because at least he has _this_ , has Parse looking down at him with a soft smile. Bitty just wants to hold him, hold him forever, God. He tugs at Parse, pulling him closer, and Parse follows his lead and tumbles down to Bitty’s side, draping his arm over his chest.

“You’re good at that,” Parse says quietly, sliding his hand up to drum his fingers on Bitty’s collarbone.

Bitty’s head feels fuzzy. “Felt real nice,” he mumbles, and then he leans over and kisses Parse again, just once, because he can.

“Mm,” Parse hums. “Thanks.”

“For what?” Bitty snuggles closer, drifting his ankle over so it presses against Parse’s calf.

“For letting me do that,” Parse says.

Bitty nods sleepily. “Thanks for wanting to do it in the first place.”

Parse laughs. “I—God, why the hell didn’t I do this before? I just—I had to get over my guilt, I guess, but—I’ve kinda wanted to kiss you for a really long time.”

“You—really?” Bitty asks, looking over at him.

“I mean, yeah. You’re—I told you I thought you were attractive the first day, you know.” Parse quirks a brow.

Bitty can’t stop himself from smiling at that, because now he knows—and maybe Parse had wanted to kiss him just as much as Bitty had wanted to kiss Parse, and isn’t that the most wonderful thing? “That makes me real happy,” he says.

“Yeah?” Parse grins at him. “I can’t believe—like, fuck. I’m touching you.” His voice comes out rough, and Bitty lets out a shiver. “You have to know that, uh—that time in the shower? That killed me.”

Bitty laughs. “Me, too. It was—I felt really dirty,” he admits. “I wish I didn’t have to feel so guilty after, and then—well.” He swallows.

“It wasn’t the best way for Zimms to find out, was it?” Parse closes his eyes. When he opens them, he’s staring up at Bitty, face questioning, and Bitty leans over to kiss his cheek but Parse turns his head and catches his lips instead, oh Lord.

But now that Parse has mentioned Zimms, Bitty can’t do away with the slight guilt niggling behind his thoughts, can’t fully let himself relax into Kent’s mouth. He reluctantly pulls back. “You—are you gonna tell him? About this?”

“Eventually.” Parse nods, turning his head to stare up at the ceiling. “Probably tomorrow. I kinda have trouble keeping my mouth shut.”

“Sounds like a bad trait in an assassin,” Bitty says with a snort.

Parse flicks him in the jaw. “I can keep secrets when it counts. There’s just no use keeping it a secret if I’m going to tell him later anyway.”

“Okay,” Bitty says, and then because he really wants to, he asks, “Um. Can I keep kissing you?”

Parse’s voice is low and husky when he says, “You can kiss me for as long as you want to, Bitty.”

xXx

When Kent opens the door to Jack’s office the next day, Jack swivels in his chair to face him. He looks surprised. “What’re you doing here?”

Kent smirks. “What, I can’t just drop in for a friendly visit?”

“You never visit during work hours if you can help it.” Jack rolls his eyes. “What are you really here for?” He tilts his head toward the chair in the corner, and Kent snags it and pulls it over to the desk.

“Well,” Kent says. “Hey, is that a new shirt?”

“Stop stalling.” Jack raises an eyebrow. “And yeah, it’s new.”

“Looks nice,” Kent says. He’s being honest—the plaid matches Jack’s eyes.

“Ah—thank you,” Jack murmurs.

Then before he can talk himself out of it, Kent looks down at the desk and says, “I kissed him last night.”

Jack is quiet for a long moment, and Kent’s just starting to worry about the silence when Jack snorts. “Finally.”

 _Oh, thank fuck_. “Rude,” Kent mumbles, a smile nonetheless pricking at the sides of his mouth. “Aren’t ya supposed to be annoyed?”

“Would you rather I be annoyed?” Jack picks up a pen, clicking it and unclicking it several times in quick succession.

Kent leans forward, stealing the pen from him, and Jack frowns and makes a grab for it but Kent holds it close. “That depends. What’re you feeling instead?” He pulls a piece of paper from the printer behind him, doodling a small spiral.

“You’re wasting paper.”

“It’s not like you pay for it.”

Jack sighs. “Fine. Anyway, I mean, I’m not _happy_ about it. But—I’m relieved, I guess.”

Kent looks up from his doodle. “Why?”

“Because you told me.” Jack shrugs. “And because the sexual tension at dinner was suffocating. And—and because you telling me means you still care what I think.”

“Of course I do,” Kent tells him. “You’re my—” _Everything_ , he would’ve said once. It might still be true. He settles for, “You’re my best friend.”

Jack glows a little at that. He clears his throat. “Was it, um—nice?”

Laughing, Kent leans over and gives him a light shove. “Trying to get deets?”

“Well, yeah.” Jack tries to hold back a smile and fails. “That’s what the boys always do at lunch, eh?”

Kent smirks at him. “They’re not usually getting off on it though.”

“Who says I’m getting off on it?”

“I think you think it’s hot.”

“So?” Jack is flushing in a way that makes Kent kind of want to straddle him right there at his desk. But he really should go back down to supervise Bitty’s training sooner or later, so he reluctantly stays seated.

“His lips were so soft.” Kent lowers his voice on purpose, watching Jack’s pupils dilate as he listens. “He’d never kissed a boy before, you know? But he was good at it—the way he was flicking his tongue, shit—so fucking hot, Jack.”

Jack squirms in his chair. “I should, um, get back to work.”

Kent bursts into laughter. “What, you don’t wanna hear more?”

“I do. That’s the problem,” Jack says seriously, and then he licks his lips and Kent can’t help leaning in to kiss him. It’s a quiet kiss, soft, and when they break apart, Jack is smiling at him.

Kent swallows thickly. God, he wants Jack—and he’s fairly sure Jack wants him too, now that he thinks about it. He should just—ask. So he does it, voice so quiet that it comes out only as a soft hiss. “Wanna fuck later?”

His breath hitches when Jack nods. “Come by after dinner, if you want,” Jack mumbles, staring at Kent like he’s been captivated. But then his face falls. “Wait—won’t he be jealous though?”

“I dunno. I’ll ask, if you want.” Kent shrugs, then smirks lightly. “Maybe he’ll get off on hearing about it like you do.”

Jack leans forward, resting his chin in his hand. “You’re making it sound like it’s a weird thing.”

“It’s not.” Kent leans over and kisses the corner of Jack’s mouth. “I promise.”

xXx

It’s been a long time since Jack’s been down on the training facility floor when it’s busy like this. He prefers to go in the early morning before anyone’s awake, because then he can’t get distracted by people who need his attention for other things—even now, he half expects someone to nab him as he passes, but he only encounters a few waves and a smattering of, “Yo, Zimms!” as he heads toward the small blades room.

He’s just curious, he tells himself. It’s just because Bitty’s a new recruit. (He’s ignoring the fact that that’s a blatant lie—he hasn’t supervised new recruit training since Chowder and his groupmates had been screened in.)

In reality, part of it is because he honestly does want to get to know Bitty, because Bitty has seemed nothing but pleasant even though Jack knows he hasn’t given Bitty any reason to like him. The other part of it—well. That might have something to do with the way Kent had been groaning above him last night, sinking down onto his dick and murmuring filthy things about how good it felt, murmuring also about how he’d made out with Bitty again just before he’d come over—and Jack had _liked_ it. Liked it enough to think briefly about it as he came, even.

And it’s the strangest thing, but lately he’s been closer to Kent than ever. That shouldn’t make sense, since Bitty’s technically disturbing their relationship, coming between them in a way that should push them apart—but it isn’t. Instead, he’s pushing them together, somehow twisting fate so that Jack’s slept with Kent more often in the last couple of weeks than he has in the last few months all together. It’s not just the sex either—this whole thing is forcing Jack to actually talk to Kent, to maybe even talk about their feelings even though it’s been a subject they’ve avoided ever since Jack turned Kent down when Kent had first asked him out.

Jack can’t help but be grateful to Bitty for that, even though he’s still a little jealous. And given all the connections stretching between them, it’s not too strange that he’s oddly excited to talk with him again, right?

Bitty’s practicing a sequence when Jack looks through the glass of the partition, and he pauses when Jack enters, both he and Kent looking up at him.

“No, no, go on,” Jack says, sidling into a chair next to Kent at the edge of the room.

“All right then,” Bitty says, looking nervous. Jack wonders how much he knows, if he knows Kent had told Jack everything, if he knows they’d fucked to it—hell, Jack hopes not. It’s probably all kinds of inappropriate, and he’s feeling awkward enough with the knowledge that Bitty already knows he’s fucking Kent.

Bitty takes a deep breath, staring at the dummy, then starts his routine. Jack can immediately see the skills from his figure skating coming into play—Bitty moves in a deadly dance, spinning around the fake body in a way that looks nearly effortless as he makes calculated jabs with his knife. Jack is grudgingly impressed. His eyes flick to Kent, and Kent’s smirking an ‘ _I told you so_ ’ smirk that Jack would shove him for if he wasn’t so focused on watching Bitty.

Bitty weaves around the dummy once, twice more, and Jack can nearly glimpse the attack that Bitty would’ve dodged if the dummy had been real. Damn, his form is excellent, and if his prediction skills for where an opponent is going to move are as good as Jack thinks they are, he’s going to be one hell of an addition out in the field. Making a final stab right to the heart, Bitty holds his stance for a few seconds longer before he looks over at Jack and Kent, panting, eyes searching for approval.

Jack gives him a small smile. “Not bad.”

Bitty sags in what looks like relief. Jack wonders at that, wonders if Bitty is nervous about his abilities or if he’s nervous about—other things. Sex things.

Probably both, now that Jack thinks on it.

“Watch your non-dominant hand,” Jack stands, walking over to him and gesturing. “If you pull it in to you too much like you were doing, you’ll have a harder time using it to block. For instance, if I come at you like this—“

Kent says, “Uh, Zimms—“

Jack goes to swing at Bitty.

“ _Ahh!_ ”—and Bitty shrieks and spins away, dropping into a crouch on the floor.

Jack stares at him.

What the fuck.

“What. Just. Happened?” he asks slowly.

Clearing his throat, Kent catches his attention and says, “Uh, yeah, about that. We haven’t really worked on sparring yet.”

 _They haven’t worked on it_. That’s absurd—and Kent obviously knows about this particular shortcoming and hasn’t even tried to _do_ anything. At this rate, Bitty won’t be able to go out on the field for _months_ , and having Kent out for a few weeks has been a major inconvenience to begin with—and that’s if this can even be trained out of Bitty to begin with— _fuck_.

His anger builds and explodes, and he’s helpless to stop it. “This is—this is more than just _not working_ on it, Parse,” Jack growls, stalking over to where Bitty’s cowering. “If he literally cannot take confrontation, he’s dead the second he walks out on the field. If you knew about this, you should have brought it up day one, and I didn’t see it _anywhere_ on his skill assessment!” Jack knows he’s shouting now but he can’t seem to stop himself. He whirls on Bitty and says, “Do you understand?” But Bitty averts his eyes, so Jack barks, “Look at me! This is unacceptable. These people we’re targeting, they know how to exploit fear, and the second you back down you’re a dead fucking man. You. Cannot. Flinch.”

He hadn’t realized just how close he’d gotten to Bitty until he realizes that he can see Bitty trembling, can see his own reflection mirrored in the darkness of Bitty’s watering eyes.

Bitty looks up at him and asks, “A-are you going to kill me?”

What? No.

Oh, fuck. Bitty’s fucking terrified of him now, isn’t he?

Jack’s messed up. He’s let anger get the better of him, and now Bitty’s staring him like he’s a fucking _predator_ , oh God.

“No—no. Of course not,” he mutters, looking away, shame prickling down his spine. “You just—God. You’re gonna need training in that or something.”

“O-okay.” Bitty’s voice cracks, and he slowly stands.

“Sorry,” Jack grits out.

“It’s o-okay,” Bitty responds, but it’s not okay. Jack wants nothing more than to flee the room, but instead he walks back over and sits down heavily in his chair.

“I want to see you spar with Parse,” he instructs, and he doesn’t look at Kent because he’s sure that if Kent glares at him right now then he’ll drown in his sea of his own guilt. “Just try your best.” _Kent won’t seem like as much of a threat_ , his mind adds, but he clenches his teeth around the thought and swallows it whole.

Kent gets up, shooting Jack an inscrutable glance as he passes through Jack’s line of sight, and Jack just barely keeps himself from flinching.

“All right,” Kent says, and his voice is soothing as he stops in front of Bitty. “I’m not going to wield because I don’t want you to get hurt, but don’t be afraid to take a jab at me if it feels natural.”

Slowly, Bitty shakes his head. “I—I c-can’t.” His face crumples. “I can’t. I can’t hurt you. You heard him, I’m— _unacceptable_ ,” he chokes out, and now he’s shaking worse and Jack is caught in a messy web of awful thoughts, because he caused this, he’s broken Bitty—

 _Be better_ , he thinks. He has to fucking fix this, so he stands, and as calmly as he can manage, he walks over to the far right cabinet and takes out two sets of chest padding. “Here,” he says, bringing them over. “It’s safer.”

Things go… okay, after that. Kent and Bitty don their padding, and then they spar, and Bitty flinches a lot but stands his ground, lets his training kick in and gets a good swipe at Kent’s chest within half a minute of starting. Kent had been going easy, of course, but that’s miles away from what had happened when Jack had gone for Bitty—but that’s the thing. Bitty is too familiar with Kent; Jack can already see it. It’s clouding Bitty’s ability to think like he’s being attacked.

“This isn’t going to work,” Jack mutters as soon as they’re finished.

And it’s the truth, but Kent shoots him a glare. “Zimms! C’mon. He did fine, don’t say that.”

“No—” Jack starts, then exhales roughly, trying his best to let it rinse the frustration from his body. In what he hopes is a softer voice, he says, “He did fine. Well, even, compared to before.” He nods at Bitty, who mouths _thank God_. “But—he knows you too well, Parse.” Jack continues, refusing to think about the possible connotations of his words. “He’s using that to predict where you’ll move, and he’s also not going hard enough on you because he doesn’t want to hurt you.”

Kent is nodding now—he sees it, then. Bitty’s jaw drops open. “How did—how’d ya know I was thinking all that?”

Jack shrugs. “It’s in your stance, among other things.”

“In other words, Zimms is a fucking menace at picking out fighting patterns,” Kent tells Bitty.

Jack ducks his head at what he supposes is a compliment. “Um, anyway—it’d be good for you to practice with someone else. I’m sure there are lots of people who would be willing to help you, if you asked.”

Something odd flickers in Bitty’s expression. He bites his lip, then opens his mouth and says, “Would you?”

Jack stares at him. His first instinct is to deny it, because the last time he’d helped out with training was forever ago, and he’s an okay leader but a shit teacher. And besides, why does Bitty want _his_ help? “You’re not—scared of me?” he mumbles.

Bitty swallows. “Isn’t that the point?”

Well—Jack guesses Bitty kind of has him there. Still, of all people, Jack is without a doubt the most awkward, most confounding choice—but then, he can’t really say _no_ , can he?

He can attempt to dissuade him, though. “I train early.”

“Um, that’s fine.” Bitty shrugs.

Kent snorts. “He means like, four thirty in the morning, you do realize?”

Bitty makes a face but he stands his ground. “That’s all right.”

“If you insist.” Jack raises his eyebrows. “And you’re not allowed to complain.”

“That, I can’t promise.” The edges of a smile prick at Bitty’s lips. Somehow he’s already smiling, even though Jack’s fairly sure he’d just accidentally scared the living daylights out of him—and God, Jack is finding it hard to be annoyed at him.

He sighs, looking away. “All right. Fine. I expect you in the lobby of the living quarters at four fifteen sharp, or I’m leaving without you.”

Bitty’s nods in agreement. “I’ll be there. Um—thanks, Zimms.”

Jack squints at him, because Bitty shouldn’t be _thanking_ him—he hasn’t even done anything yet. “You’re welcome?”

“Don’t worry. He’s not actually pissed off anymore,” Kent whispers to Bitty.

“You know I can definitely hear that, right?” Jack grumbles, because the way Kent’s leaning toward Bitty can only be described as intimate, and Jack—right, fuck. He’s still jealous.

He wishes he wasn’t. He really hates feeling like this all the time.

“Zimms.” Kent gives him a look. “Play nice.”

Jack stares at him, then nods shortly. “Yeah, all right. I’ll try.”

xXx

Bitty _hates_ getting up early with a passion. But he does it, because he’s determined to figure out exactly what makes Zimms tick and the only way to do that is by waking up at four in the fucking morning, throwing on a pair of shorts and a tank top, and stumbling down to the lobby.

Zimms is already there when Bitty arrives. He gives Bitty a nod and a short, “Good morning,” and they set off.

Bitty’s nervousness doesn’t kick in until they arrive at the small blades room. And then he remembers exactly what he’s here for, and—shit, now he’s getting anxious.

“Usually I practice in a different room,” Zimms is saying, “But I want to work you up to wielding a knife while we spar.”

“You mean—I won’t have one for now?” Bitty swallows, trying not to tremble.

Zimms gives him a wry look. “Don’t take this as too much of an insult, but I don’t quite trust you with one yet. If you freak out like you did with me last time, there’s a good chance you’ll accidentally hurt one of us.”

“Oh.” Bitty blinks. “Then, um—what should I do?”

“I want you to just get used to the feeling of having someone come at you. I’m going to try to grab you, and I want you to evade me, but not so much that you’re flinching and running away. Try and mostly stay where you are. And if I do catch you, you can’t shut down.”

Bitty watches Zimms head over to the cabinet with the padding in it, tossing Bitty a set and putting one on himself. “Should I, um—fight back?”

Zimms considers it, then nods. “Yeah, go ahead. Although I’ll ask that you don’t aim for my face, or, um—” He gestures vaguely at his crotch, and Bitty’s face flames.

This is Zimms. This is the man Parse is fucking. Parse has probably—no, definitely touched Zimms there. Oh _God_ , now Bitty’s going to be thinking about _sex_ —and yeah, all right, he might not have thought the decision to train with Zimms all the way through.

“Are you ready?” Zimms gives him a strange look, and Bitty hurries to fasten the velcro on the padding.

“Y-yep!” he says, even though he’s not doing a very job of convincing himself of that, let alone Zimms.

“All right,” Zimms furrows his brow.

Without warning, Zimms charges.

Bitty can’t _help_ himself—“Stop, stop, I wasn’t ready!” he cries out. His eyes have squeezed shut of their own accord, and when he opens them, he’s backed himself up against the wall and Zimms is glaring at him.

“Come on! I came at you slow!” Zimms crosses his arms. “I barely touched you!”

“Slow, my ass,” Bitty says with a shiver. It had _felt_ fast, a mess of motion that he can’t even begin to untangle in his brain because it’s all tied into knots by fear.

“Bitty—“

“I know, I know.” He makes himself stand, pushing off of the wall. He needs to do this. He needs to, or else he’ll be picked off in the field like Zimms had said—and he can’t have come this far just to die of his own incompetence. “C-come at me again.”

“Okay,” Zimms says, and this time Bitty manages to sidestep his grab—but then Zimms make another lunge and no no no that’s not okay—and suddenly Bitty’s against the wall again.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

Zimms sighs, but he looks more resigned than anything. “C’mon. Let’s try again.”

Bitty steels himself.

There’s part of him that thinks, as Zimms comes at him again, that there’s no use for all this training. Bitty’s a lost cause; he’s never going to lose the urge to flinch away—he’s not _worth_ Zimms’ time.

But then Zimms’ arms come toward him and he flees, losing his train of thought in his wake.

It goes on for two grueling hours, during which Bitty succeeds in not completely flinching no less than three times, even managing to land a hit on Zimms’ chest that would’ve wounded him if he’d been holding a knife. When they’re finally done, Bitty collapses in one of the chairs on the sidelines, resting his forehead in his palms and just breathing. God, he’s so shaky right now.

“Bitty,” Zimms says, walking over.

“I know,” Bitty bites out. “I’ve still got a lot of work to do, I know.” It’s what Zimms had been muttering to himself the whole morning, and Bitty’s kind of sick of it.

“Well, yes, but—I was going just to say—good work today.” Zimms lowers himself into the chair next to him, looking pensive.

Bitty’s head is spinning with the careful praise. “Oh! I, ah—thank you,” he stammers.

Zimms rewards him with a grin. “Don’t let it go to your head, eh?”

“Oh, I won’t.” Bitty snorts. “I’m not Parse, for goodness sakes.”

“No, you’re not.” Zimms raises an eyebrow. “And thank God for that.”

“What, you wouldn’t want two of him?” Bitty smirks. “Not even for—um, okay, shutting up now.” Bitty puts a hand to his mouth and looks away to keep from laughing nervously, because oh God, he’d just pointed directly at the huge elephant in the room, hadn’t he?

Zimms gives him a _look_. “Um.”

“I’m sorry,” Bitty blurts out.

“Sorry for what?” Zimms sounds more serious now. “For bringing it up? That’s—that’s fine, honestly. As long as no one’s around. I’m not going to get mad at you.”

“Okay,” Bitty says, then again, “I am sorry, though. I—um. I know he already told you about—the kissing,” he sighs the words out, staring intently at the floor. His breath starts coming faster even though he calmed down from the morning’s exertion minutes ago, his heart fluttering madly in his chest.

“He told you I said it was okay, right?”

Bitty glances at Zimms, and he really doesn’t look mad—just contemplative. “Yeah, he did.”

“And I wasn’t lying. It’s really—fine.” Zimms exhales. “I’m happy that he’s happy around you. Honestly.”

“You still seem like you’re not so sure about it.” Bitty bites his lip. “And—I’m the one who’s intruding on y’all, so really, if it’s not okay, please say so. I don’t want anyone feelin’ bad.”

Zimms crosses his arms, laughing shortly. “It’s fine, Bitty. Seriously. If he wants you and you want him, kiss him, fuck him if you want. He’s not really _mine_ , you know?”

Bitty stares at him. “Umm. Wait, um. Like—sex?” His voice squeaks up at the end, and oh God, he has to be flushing redder than his Moomaw’s tomatoes.

“Did he not mention that?” Zimms chuckles, and Bitty quickly shakes his head no, because Parse had never brought it up at all—Bitty’s sure he would have remembered that. “Hm. That’s—unexpected.”

“Um—why?” Bitty asks, and it’s kind of a vague question but he has so many unanswered thoughts swimming around his brain that he can’t even begin to prioritize them— _why let him sleep with me, why wouldn’t he tell me you’d let him sleep with me, does Parse not want to sleep with me?_

Zimms only answers the second one. “He’s being more careful than I would’ve expected. And I don’t know if that’s for your sake or for mine.” He swallows, something like exasperation in his eyes.

Bitty clenches his fingers in the hem of his shorts. “Maybe both?”

At that, Zimms furrows his brow as if he hadn’t considered it before, considered that Parse might be trying to balance both of them—even though that’s been fairly clear to Bitty ever since Parse had finally decided to kiss him.

“Huh.” A little smile quirks on Zimms’ mouth. “You might be right.”

xXx

Bitty is completely exhausted by lunchtime. His normal training with Parse on top of that morning’s sparring practice was more than sufficient to wipe him out, and he stares blearily at his sandwich and homemade chips, wishing he cared more about what he was eating. Parse had bolted down his meal and left for a meeting, though not before nudging Bitty and instructing him to take the afternoon off, thank God.

He’s halfway through his meal, contemplating a nap, when someone sits across from him—Shitty, he remembers. The half-naked one, even though Shitty’s thankfully wearing clothes now.

“Um, hi!” Bitty says.

“Hey, dude.” Shitty grins at him. “How’s it going?”

“I’m all right,” Bitty says, even though he feels so tired that he could probably fall asleep right here.

“Yo, are we sitting with Bitty today? You haven’t met him yet, right, man?” A loud voice at his shoulder has Bitty turning around to see Holster, standing right next to the guy called Ransom, both with trays in hand.

Ransom sets his tray down next to Bitty. “Hey, dude, what’s up?”

“Hi,” Bitty tries his best to put on a cheery grin, even though in the back of his mind all he can think about is that Ransom is the one who can kill people in dozens of different ways.

“Bitty’s been chilling with Parse for training,” Holster explains to Ransom, crossing over to sit down next to Shitty. “We originally picked him up as a witness, but Parse somehow managed to convince upper management to allow him to sign on with us—which I’m betting he won’t explain how it happened even if we ask, right?” Holster turns to eye Bitty with a raised brow.

“Um, no,” Bitty laughs, grateful for the out.

“Oh, hey, since you’re training with Parser—say, you don’t know anything about his mystery man, do you?” Ransom nudges him, shoving a bite of chicken into his mouth.

Bitty can’t keep himself from flushing—shit. “N-no,” he lies, but the redness in his face has already given him away. They know about Parse sleeping with someone? Huh.

“Ooooooh, he’s got deets!” Holster grins. “Spillll.”

Bitty flushes even harder, if that’s still possible. “I, um—I dunno,” he stammers, “I’m not really supposed to say anything—it’s private, ya know, and I know I’m not the best at lying but I can definitely keep a secret so—“

“It’s okay,” Shitty cuts in, saving Bitty from his own rambling and throwing both Ransom and Holster a meaningful look. “You’re not allowed to intimidate the new guy into giving out deets. Not cool, dudes.”

“Aww, damn.” Holster shakes his head, reaching for the bottle of hot sauce in the center of the table. “It was worth a shot. We’ve been trying to figure out who Parse is fucking for ages, man.”

“Yeah, sorry dude.” Ransom gives Bitty a cheerful nod. “No hard feelings, right?”

Bitty chuckles. “None taken.”

The meal goes on, and Bitty finishes well before everyone else seeing as he’d already been there for a while. He’s just about to excuse himself so that he can take a well-needed nap when the topic of conversation turns to Zimms, and—well, napping can wait, so Bitty takes his hands off of his tray from where he’d been preparing to pick it up, quietly listening in.

“He’s a hella great squad leader, you gotta admit, bro,” Ransom is saying.

Shitty nods along. “And he’s a really good dude, too. He just takes time to warm up to people.”

“I know.” Holster makes a face. “He’s just—I dunno. Do you ever wonder what really happened, back during the big ole’ incident?”

“Hell yeah, all the time—“ Ransom starts, but then Shitty shushes him, tilting his head toward Bitty.

“Hey,” Bitty says, slightly miffed at being so obviously cut out of the gossip. “What do y’all mean?”

“It’s nothing, Bitty,” Shitty tries to say, but Holster shoots him a frown.

“He has a right to know as much as the rest of us know, bro,” Holster says, elbowing him lightly. “He’s working under the dude just like everyone else. And the fact that he’s working _directly_ with Parser—”

Shitty sighs. “Fine. But just stick to the facts, brah.” He looks at Bitty. “It’s not our job to go filling your head with gossip, you know.” He twitches his moustache at him, and Bitty can’t help chuckling.

“So here’s the deal.” Holster slides his tray out of the way, lowering his voice conspiratorially as he leans in toward Bitty. “A few years back, before most of our floor had joined the Aces, there was a huge scandal and no one really knows what happened. It was hushed up real fast, believe me, because not even the people whose entire jobs revolve around finding info have been able to find the deets. Anyway, what we do know is that it involved Zimms and Parse, and that both of them went outta commission for like a year afterwards. Super shady.”

“Not exactly _shady_ , bro.” Ransom pokes him. “More like… intriguing.”

“Yeah, yeah, intriguing—we’ll go with that. Anyway, there’s a lotta speculation going around, though I doubt Shitty will let us tell ya the juicier bits, but it’s fairly universally accepted that something got fucked up—although, Zimms got promoted later that year. Take that as you will.” Holster shrugs, then leans over and steals a leftover chip from Ransom’s plate.

“Hang on a sec, don’t forget about the thing with Zimms’ dad.” Ransom holds a finger in the air, not even seeming to notice the loss of his chip.

“Oooh, right, you probably don’t even know about Bad Bob!” Holster’s eyebrows shoot up.

“I kinda recognize the name—wasn’t he in the manuals?” Bitty blinks at them.

Both Ransom and Holster look at each other and shrug, and Shitty bursts out laughing. “Bros! You fuckers should know the manuals like the back of your hand. Geez, Bitty’s showing you up—you should be ashamed!”

“Yo dude, don’t rub it in,” Holster mutters, rolling his eyes. “Specially not to Ransom. He’s delicate.”

“Am not.” Ransom gives him a look.

“Are too.” Holster steals another chip.

“Am _not_ —“

“ _Anyway_ ,” Shitty takes over as the two continue to argue, clasping his hands in front of him. “While they argue, I guess I’ll tell you—if you haven’t guessed it already, Bad Bob is Zimms’ dad.”

“Woah.” Bitty’s eyebrows fly up. “Wasn’t he a really important agent?”

“Yep, extremely. He was a Head at one point. There are some fucking gnarly missions in the data logs from the years he was active, you should go read them if you ever get curious. Like, hell, the Schooner heist of ’09? Awesome, man. Anyway, Zimms grew up around all of this, basically. He joined up as soon as he was eligible.”

“That must’ve been—well, Zimms probably was under a lot of pressure, wasn’t he?” Bitty bites his lip. He knows all too well what parental disapproval can be like—Coach had never kept it much of a secret that he wished for a more athletic son.

“Hit the nail on the head.” Shitty nods sagely. “Not really from his dad—apparently Bad Bob’s a really good guy—but a ton from other people. They all expected him to be the next big thing. Which—we’re not saying he isn’t, of course, and I kinda think they were expecting too much of him to begin with. But yeah. And then there was the incident.”

“Bad Bob retired right after it happened,” Holster interjects, cutting off his squabble with Ransom. “The only Head to retire prematurely in the whole fucking history of the Aces—hell, the others haven’t changed for what, twenty years? Anyway, Bad Bob’s not even working on the grounds or anything. Rumor has it that no one actually knows where he fucked off to.”

“Which isn’t really all that abnormal, to be fair,” Ransom points out.

“Huh,” Bitty says, because—wow. It’s a whole lot of information to take in at once. “So—no one involved really talks about it, then?”

“Nah, it’s pretty private. Probably for good reasons, so I wouldn’t go bothering Parse or Zimms about it,” Shitty cautions.

Privately, Bitty thinks that’s a fairly good idea, but he’s not sure how well he’ll be able to stick to that plan with the roots of curiosity firmly planted in his brain.

xXx

The next morning’s sparring practice can only be described as awkward, and Bitty thinks both he and Zimms know it. He can barely concentrate on using any of the basic blocks Zimms has been working on teaching him—it gets so bad that halfway through practice, Zimms drops his stance and says, “Come on, out with it. What’s got you distracted this morning?”

Bitty flushes, because there are a lot of answers to that question and none of them are really things he wants to discuss openly with Zimms. There’s the fact that Shitty had literally just warned him against digging up the past, and then—well.

Bitty had made out with Parse again last night. And that wouldn’t be so strange—it’s been happening for a while now—except that for some reason, whenever he’d closed his eyes, he kept thinking about Zimms, about how Zimms had pushed him up against the wall that morning—and what would’ve happened if Zimms did it in a way that wasn’t strictly for practice’s sake, held him there and maybe leaned down and pressed his body against Bitty’s and—ah, shit, now he’s imagining it again. Lord, Bitty feels so guilty thinking of blue eyes when Parse’s green ones had been right in front of him. Bitty has no excuses for thinking about Zimms like that—hell, Zimms isn’t even _attracted_ to him. He seems to barely tolerate Bitty in the first place.

Maybe that’s how Parse feels kissing Bitty—guilty, torn between wanting Bitty and wanting Zimms, even though Bitty’s there and Zimms isn’t. It’s a sobering thought, and suddenly Bitty can understand why Parse hadn’t mentioned the possibility of sleeping with Bitty—the guilt from thinking about just kissing someone else threatens to crush Bitty alive.

“Bitty?” Zimms waves a hand in front of his face, and Bitty jumps.

“Ah—sorry!” He swallows. “Um. It’s just—” he scratches his arm, stalling, and decides to go with the lesser of the two evils (because talking about the past is far preferable to admitting to Zimms that he’d definitely thought about making out with him yesterday, _sheesh_.) “Well, the boys were talking at lunch yesterday…”

Zimms sighs, rolling his eyes. “Should’ve known the gossip mill would’ve got to you at some point.” He motions at the chairs on the side of the room and says, “Come sit. And drink some water.”

Bitty follows, intensely hoping that he hasn’t bit off a larger chunk of conversation than he can swallow. He takes a swig of his water bottle, watching as Zimms sighs and looks off into the distance, through multiple glass partitions at the blurry image of another early riser getting started on training.

“First of all,” Zimms says eventually, “This isn’t really any of your business.”

Bitty’s throat constricts, and he blushes hotly. “Um—yeah. Sorry.”

Zimms sits back in his chair, leaning his head so he can look up at the ceiling. “Is it strange that I want to tell you anyway?”

Bitty hadn’t been expecting that at all—but his curiosity had only grown stronger overnight, and he’s not going to turn down Zimms’ offer to talk. “No—not really,” he murmurs. “I mean, you can tell me if ya want to. I won’t spread it.”

Zimms eyes him carefully. “I know. If you were untrustworthy—well, a hell of a lot more people would know about Parse and I, for one thing.”

“Are you saying you trust me?” Bitty can’t help smiling a little.

Zimms nods, looking reluctant. “I guess I do. Just—don’t take advantage of that.”

“I won’t,” Bitty tells him. He pulls his knees up, wrapping his arms around them, and waits for Zimms to speak.

Zimms is quiet for what feels like a long time. When he finally opens his mouth, it’s to ask a question Bitty hadn’t expected. “Do you love your parents?”

Bitty flinches.

“Shit, sorry. I keep forgetting that has to be sore for you—sorry,” Zimms looks away.

“No—it’s all right,” Bitty says slowly, because if this is what Zimms needs to start talking then Bitty will take it. “I love my mother to death. It’s been—hard. I know she’s probably real upset that I’ve gone missing.” He shudders a sigh. “And I love Coach too, honestly. He was hard on me, but I know he wanted what was best for me anyway, so,” he shrugs.

Zimms nods thoughtfully. “I feel the same way about my dad. He was nothing but kind to me, but I’m sure you’ve heard about how important he was—I always wanted to be like him, growing up. I wanted to get promoted and be successful on missions, and every time I failed—I just felt like I was letting him down. And I’m not—there are decisions he made for the good of the Aces that I could never have had the strength to do. I’m so… weak, in comparison, and it’s been something I’ve been dealing with for a long time.”

Bitty’s brow furrows. “You’re not weak—I mean, look at you. So many people look up to you, and… I mean, I’m kinda intimidated by you,” he admits. “But part of that is because you seem so—powerful, honestly.”

Zimms huffs a laugh. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Bitty averts his eyes. “And—I can tell you’re really going easy on me when we spar. I’m sure you could’ve knocked me flat on my back any of the times we’ve gone at it.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.” Zimms nudges him. “Parse wasn’t lying when he said you were fast. Sometimes I have trouble catching you.”

Bitty beams at him. “You’re just sayin’ that.”

“I’m not. I don’t sugarcoat things,” Zimms tells him. “Just ask Parse.”

Biting his lip, Bitty can’t stop himself from flicking his eyes toward, then away from Zimms’ face.

“What?” Zimms asks.

Bitty hides his face in his knees. “You said—yesterday you mentioned, um. Sex.”

“Oh,” Zimms says, looking like he wants to laugh at Bitty’s embarrassment. “Did you guys end up talking about it?”

Bitty shakes his head. “Naw, but—I’m. Um. I just—I was thinking, wouldn’t you be jealous as hell?” Zimms opens his mouth to respond, but Bitty cuts him off and adds, “Because I would be.”

“I—well.” Zimms purses his lips. “I want him to be happy.”

“You said that before,” Bitty points out. “But—you don’t think you’re making him happy?”

“Obviously I’m not enough.” Zimms turns his head away, a bitter tilt to his mouth, and Bitty stares at him.

“What? No—don’t think that.” Bitty puts a hand on his arm. “I don’t think that’s why—I mean, I don’t know for certain, but it seems like he cares a whole lot about you, and—he would’ve told me about the sex thing if he didn’t care as much about hurting you, right?”

Zimms exhales slowly, eyeing Bitty’s hand on his arm, and Bitty quickly removes it. “No—that’s fine,” Zimms tells him. “You can—uh, you know what, never mind.”

“Here,” Bitty says, and puts his hand back on Zimms’ arm. “I mean—is this okay?”

“Yeah,” Zimms says, swallowing. Bitty pretends not to notice that his cheeks have gone a little pink. “I guess you’re right—about him caring. I probably—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I probably don’t give him enough credit for how he feels.”

“Have y’all, um—talked about stuff?”

“A little. I—I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to date.” Zimms’ mouth twists. “He knows that, and there are a lot of reasons as to why. So—in theory—if you wanted him, I shouldn’t be jealous.”

And yes, Bitty does want Parse, but—“You shouldn’t have to suppress that,” he says quietly, sliding his hand up and down Zimms’ arm in a way that he hopes is comforting.

Zimms briefly leans into the touch, and Bitty’s heart pounds. “What’re you trying to get out of this? I don’t understand.” Zimms sighs, turning to look at him. “It seems like you want him, but you’re here comforting me, and—I don’t know. I just don’t get it.”

Bitty laughs softly, shaking his head. “Would it make you feel better if I said that I don’t really get it either?”

Zimms seems to mull on that for a moment. “Well, at least that makes two of us.”

“Three,” Bitty says. “I really doubt Parse knows what he’s doing, either.”

Zimms chuckles. “Kissing you. Fucking me. Hm, yeah, he probably has no idea.”

Bitty laughs too, pulse quickening at the word _fucking_ —God, he really needs to get a handle on himself. “Hey. Do you want a hug?” he asks, because Zimms looks kinda like he might.

Zimms blinks at him. “I don’t really—um. You know what? Why not? This can’t really get any weirder, eh?” He grins.

Bitty leans in to wrap his arms around him, heart racing as his chin presses into Zimms’ shoulder, as he’s surrounded by the musky smell of sweat and shampoo. Oh God, a rush of arousal pools in his groin, _Lord_ —and as Zimms pulls away, Bitty thinks that things certainly _can_ get weirder, because just then a strange coil of emotion starts unfurling in his chest.

xXx

“Are you all right?” Kent finally asks Bitty at dinner, because Bitty’s head had been in the clouds all day during training and Kent has no idea why.

“Huh? Yeah, I’m fine,” Bitty says absently.

Kent lets it drop. But Bitty is still kind of spaced out when they head back to Kent’s room, and Kent kind of wants to make out but he feels bad initiating it when Bitty’s so obviously preoccupied. So instead, Kent sits down on his bed, and Bitty follows (presumably out of habit), leaning up against Kent and taking his hand.

And—oh. All right. This is okay, Kent thinks. He’s held hands with Jack all of one time, so this is kind of new, but he’s not gonna deny that it feels really nice. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks Bitty quietly.

“Mhmm!” Bitty says, a little too brightly. “Hey, what other kind of training do I need? Like, besides physical combat?”

Kent gets the feeling Bitty is avoiding the subject, but he goes along with it anyway. “Uhh, there’s a lot of training modules on mission etiquette. What to do if you’re captured, how to talk to people you need to get information from, how to seduce people on the job, that kinda thing. We can start going over those soon if you want to.” He shrugs, about to continue on to talk about simulations, but beside him Bitty has gone tense.

“Um. Seducing?” Bitty says faintly.

“I mean—that’s completely elective,” Kent says, backtracking.

“But you mean, like, flirting, or—actual sex?” Bitty looks pale now, and Kent squeezes his hand, hoping he hasn’t freaked him out too much.

“Uhh, sometimes? But seriously, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, especially since you’re only attracted to other dudes—it probably won’t be necessary.”

Bitty bites his lip, looking seriously at Kent. “Have—have you? Done that?”

Kent flushes. “Uh, yeah. A couple of times. It wasn’t a huge deal.” And it hadn’t been—they’d both been women, and though he’s usually less attracted to women when it comes down to it, he hadn’t minded the sex. He hadn’t been romantically attracted to them at all, if he’s being honest, so he’d left both jobs none the worse for the wear.

“Not a huge deal,” Bitty repeats, looking stunned. “Right.”

“Bits…” Parse puts his arm around him, tugging him closer. “Are you okay?”

Slowly, Bitty shakes his head. “I—fuck. Lord, I can’t even imagine… That sounds—I don’t think I’d wanna do that, but—but what if I had to?” It’s almost like he’s talking only to himself, because he’s staring at the wall like Kent’s not even there.

“Hey. Bits. Look at me,” Kent says, and Bitty does. “You won’t have to. If anything, it’d be me, all right? We look similar enough that we’re probably interchangeable type-wise, and I don’t anticipate you going on a mission without me anytime soon. So don’t worry about it.”

Bitty opens his mouth, then closes it again and sighs. “Okay. I—okay.” He shakes his head again. “Sorry, I was just—surprised.”

“No problem,” Kent says, brushing a kiss to his forehead. “You wanna tell me why you were so spaced out earlier?”

Bitty flushes, and good, at least there’s color in his face now. “I, um. I had a talk with Zimms,” he says quietly.

“And…?” Kent probes gently.

Bitty stifles a self-deprecatory laugh in his fist. “I—fuck. I’m—attracted to him? I, um—I thought you should know.”

Kent stares at him. Slowly, he starts laughing, feeling it bubble up from his chest as he slides his other arm around Bitty and pulls him into a hug. “I don’t blame ya. Zimms is really fucking sexy,” he says seriously.

“Yeah, but you’re sleeping with him,” Bitty points out, sounding wounded. “I don’t have an excuse.”

“You don’t need really one, you know?” Kent pulls back, holding him by the shoulders. “I mean—do you wanna talk about it?”

Bitty huffs a laugh. “Not really.”

“I didn’t think so.” Kent smirks, but he lets his expression soften after a moment, just in case. “We _can_ talk about it, if you wanna.”

“I’m all right. Thanks.” Bitty smiles ruefully. “I—um. Could I kiss you instead?”

“Go ahead,” Kent says, smiling, blood pounding slow as molasses in his ears as Bitty leans in, presses his lips gently against Kent’s. God, they’ve been making out nearly every night since they’d had dinner with Jack, and it’s nearly been a week. Kent doesn’t know what to think anymore. He only knows that he’s really, frustratingly horny and that he also really fucking doesn’t want to stop. “So good,” he mumbles against Bitty’s lips, and Bitty shivers, opening his mouth so Kent can flick his tongue in.

“ _Parse_ ,” Bitty whimpers, pushing him into the headboard. “I’m—oh God.” He squirms lightly, because this position has put Kent’s leg directly against Bitty’s crotch, and oh, _fuck_. Kent can feel Bitty hard against him, and Kent’s getting hard too—shit, they should stop, they really should.

“Bitty…” Kent pulls away, regretting it the moment his body is no longer pressed against Bitty’s. “I’m sorry.” He averts his eyes.

“It’s okay.” Bitty sighs heavily, “I understand.”

The idea coalesces in Kent’s head slowly, and once he thinks of it he can’t stop himself from saying it aloud— _fuck_. “Hey, um… if you wanted, you could—shit. Okay, this is really not appropriate, I’m sorry—but like. You could—touch yourself again?”

Bitty stares at him, a flush starting high in his cheeks and spreading down to his collarbones.

“Sorry, sorry, never mind.” Kent shakes his head. “Fuck, I should just—stop talking, yeah, all right.”

Bitty reaches for his hand again, intertwines their fingers. Quietly, he asks, “Can I?”

 _Shit_. Kent is so goddamned hard right now, fuck—he lets himself slide down until his head is against the pillows, letting go of Bitty’s hand just to stall. “I won’t stop you.”

Next to him, Bitty shifts so that he’s laying down too. “I—are you gonna?”

Kent shouldn’t. God, he shouldn’t. But Kent also has terrible impulse control, and he’s so hard that it hurts to be confined in his jeans—and then he hears Bitty shifting along with the rustling sound of fabric, and fuck, okay, Kent’s doing this. “Yeah,” he whispers, voice nearly catching in his throat as he fumbles with his zipper.

He forcibly looks away. He won’t watch Bitty, and it’ll be okay—they’ve done this before.

But Kent hadn’t known that Jack would be so accepting of him and Bitty making out before, either. It makes the temptation to reach over and touch so much stronger, burning in Kent’s chest, and God, he _wants_ it, but—he shouldn’t.

Though it’s not like Bitty even knows that Jack’s said it’s okay, Kent reasons. Bitty’s expectations can’t be terribly high, which is both depressing and also kind of a relief—Kent doesn’t want Bitty to want things he can’t have, because Kent knows how that feels, knows it with every fiber of his being.

“Parse?” Bitty asks quietly.

“Hmm?” Parse just barely manages to keep the word from being a moan as he wraps his hand around his cock.

“Can I—hold your hand?”

Fuckkk.

Kent doesn’t think he’d known how far gone he was until this exact moment, as he reaches a hand over and feels Bitty’s fingers slip between his own. “Of course,” he says, and then Bitty whimpers quietly and Kent’s hips lift off the mattress of their own accord. “Bits,” he sighs, then clamps his mouth shut because he _shouldn’t_ be saying Bitty’s name like this—

And then Kent feels Bitty shudder against him, and okay, fine. This is all right, because _God_ , he wants to feel Bitty shudder like that all the time. He fists himself faster, wishing he had lube but not willing to lean away from Bitty to grab it—he can make do with the slickness of the pre-come leaking out of him anyway, he thinks. Bitty’s making little moaning noises beside him, and Kent can just imagine how he looks, shorts pushed down his thighs and dick tight in the ring of his fist—fuck, fuck, Kent wants to look so badly.

He can’t. He shouldn’t.

“Wish I could see you,” he says instead, and Bitty moans helplessly in a way that send arousal shooting all the way down to the tips of Kent’s toes.

“You could—I wouldn’t mind,” Bitty whispers, voice all shuddery.

“I shouldn’t,” Kent protests feebly. But fuck, he’s already touching him, isn’t he? Sure, technically they’re just holding hands, but where’s the line between not-sex and actual sex? Haven’t they already blown way past it?

But Bitty’s never kissed a boy before, he’d said. Kent bets that means Bitty hasn’t slept with a boy before either, and if that’s the case—well, he deserves a better first time than this, something more meaningful than a rushed masturbation session that both of them will probably feel guilty about later.

Bitty sighs and says, “Maybe another time.” His voice sounds longing. Kent aches to pull him closer.

But as it is, Kent’s already nearing his orgasm. He says so, choking out a _Bitty, close, close_ that makes Bitty positively _whine_ , shivering so hard that Kent almost shudders by proxy. “I’m gonna—” Kent chokes out, and then Bitty’s hand is squeezing around his and he’s coming and Bitty’s coming too and oh, oh, “ _Fuckkk._ ”

“Parse— _Parse_ ,” Bitty groans, and Kent can hear the slick, obscene sounds as his hand movements get wetter around his cock—it sends Kent shuddering into aftershocks, God.

Kent’s heart rate takes a long time to come down. He reaches for the tissues, determinedly not looking at Bitty as he hands a couple over and then cleans himself up.

When they’re both fully clothed again, Kent finally, finally lets himself pull Bitty close, and Bitty burrows into his shoulder with a contented hum. Fuck, Kent’s probably going to have to tell Jack about this at dinner tomorrow, isn’t he?

He’ll think on it. For now, there’s sleep, which he has to attempt even with the puddle of guilt churning in his stomach.

God, Bitty deserves better than this.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much apologies for the delay! School got in the way of editing everything else, but hopefully I'll be able to roll out the second half of this story much faster. <3

The tandem orgasm (he refuses to call it _sex_ because Lord, his first time is _not_ going to be something so clandestine) had taken Bitty’s mind off of everything else for long enough that he could fall asleep. But his worries are buzzing loud and clear in his brain when he awakens, and he sits up and tries his best to blink them away—which unfortunately doesn’t work.

However, it does at least buy him enough time to change clothes and stumble downstairs to the lobby to meet Zimms, who takes one look at Bitty’s mussed up hair and simply hands him the cup of coffee he’s taken to bringing Bitty in the mornings. The action makes Bitty feel warmer than usual today, a bright spark in the haze of his uncertainty, and he finds himself wishing he could hold Zimms’ hand as they walk to the training center. And then he feels kind of pathetic for wishing for that, because _God._

It’s silly, but he’s definitely, definitely crushing on Zimms. He can’t really deny it anymore.

But no matter what he tries to think about, Bitty can’t stop thinking about what Parse had said last night. _Seducing on the job_ , like that’s normal, like it’s nothing to worry about—and Parse had said Bitty wouldn’t have to, but there’s no guarantee, is there? Parse himself had mentioned earlier that anything can happen out there, so what is Bitty supposed to believe?

And it wouldn’t be such a big deal, except that Bitty still thinks of himself as a virgin, and he really, really doesn’t want the first time he has sex to be a complete fucking lie. And besides, what if he’s shit at it? He’s bad at lying on a good day, and tying that in with embarrassment and probably ineptitude at anything sexual means there’s a good chance that he’d get found out immediately. The thought is terrifying.

“Bitty.” Zimms’ voice jolts him out of the swirling storm in his brain as they enter the training complex. “Drink your coffee. You still look dead on your feet.”

Bitty laughs weakly. “Okay, Captain,” he mumbles, and Zimms raises a brow at him.

Bitty drinks his coffee.

Training is slow going as usual, once he forces himself to actually pay attention—he’s surer of how to move his body to block now, but he still flinches far too often. He does think he’s been getting better, but it’s hard to tell if that’s real progress or if it’s just because he’s getting used to Zimms being his attacker.

When he voices that worry to Zimms at the end of practice as they’re putting their padding away, Zimms just gives him an amused look. “Fishing for compliments?”

“What? No!” Bitty shakes his head, biting at his lip. “I really am worried.”

Zimms claps a hand on his shoulder, and Bitty winces at the contact but doesn’t flinch. “You’re getting better,” Zimms says, in a voice that leaves no room for argument. “That’s not to say you’ll be ready for the field anytime soon, but we’ll make a mean agent out of you yet.”

Bitty gives him a grateful smile, but his mind is whirring at the fact that Zimms hasn’t taken his hand off of his shoulder yet—and it can’t mean anything, obviously, but his hand is warm and Bitty had spent a good portion of the morning with Zimms’ body pressed against him, fighting to get free—and none of that is supposed to be sexual at all, but once Bitty had considered it from that angle, it’d been hard to stop.

“Hey, don’t let Parse forget about dinner tonight,” Zimms says, slinging a towel over his sweaty neck. Off-handedly, he adds, “You’re invited too, by the way.”

“Oh, thank you.” Bitty gives him a bright smile. “Should I bring anything?”

Zimms raises his eyebrows. “If I say no, I have a feeling you’re going to do it anyway.”

Bitty laughs at that. “Um. Probably.”

They walk for a few more steps toward the training center entrance before Zimms says, “I liked that pie you made last time.”

“That’s easy enough.” Bitty grins at him, already making plans to bribe his way into the kitchen after practice.

xXx

It’s later, as he’s making the pie, that the idea strikes him. Oh, _God._

It starts out as a daydream—he’s humming to himself, mixing the ingredients for the crust as his kitchen friend Nancy looks on in amusement. (She’s a wonderful older lady with a wicked gleam to her smile, and Bitty probably shouldn’t be thinking about sex at _all_ with her in the room, but gosh, he can’t seem to keep his mind from wandering.)

He thinks about Zimms’ hand on his shoulder that morning, thinks about hugging Zimms just yesterday, and oh—all these little, innocent touches are driving him mad. What if Zimms had leaned over and kissed him? Bitty knows he would have kissed back, no matter how guilty he would’ve felt about it—the idea of kissing Zimms makes him feel so, so fluttery. And it’s a pipe dream, he knows, because there’s no way Zimms would _actually_ initiate anything—but maybe that’s a good thing, because the sheer ridiculousness of his thoughts is doing wonders at keeping his guilt at bay.

He’s in the middle of imagining exactly what it would be like to kiss Zimms when a thought occurs to him—Parse hadn’t really seemed bothered last night when Bitty had admitted to thinking Zimms was attractive, had he?

As Bitty spoons the filling into his pie, his hands are shaking because—what if— _Lord_.

Parse and Zimms have slept together. Bitty and Parse have made out.

Is it such a stretch to imagine that maybe, just maybe, they could all—?

Bitty forces himself to think the words.

Maybe they could—have sex.

Arousal spurts into his veins as he pictures it, even though he runs into a fairly obvious roadblock almost immediately—Zimms isn’t attracted to him. And even if Zimms _was_ attracted to him, Bitty doesn’t think he’d necessarily agree to sleep with him—not to mention that Bitty would be majorly intruding on Parse and Zimms’ relationship by even suggesting it.

But maybe—huh. What if Bitty made it seem like it was for training? Because he’s never done it before, and he’d really have no idea what to do, God forbid him ever having to do it on the job. And that—that might work, if he spins it the right way, but—but. Who is he kidding? He’s not really the kind of person to bring that kind of thing up to begin with.

He weaves the lattice for the crust, making a futile effort not to think about what it would be like to have both of their hands on him. God, even just holding Parse’s hand last night had made everything feel so much more intense, and the thought of _both_ Parse and Zimms touching him, looking at him—Lord. He’s kind of astonished with himself for coming up with the idea in the first place because it’s just so _dirty._

He puts the pie in the oven, and his flushed face has nothing to do with the heat.

“You all right, sweetheart?” Nancy bustles around him with an armful of dishes, voice lilting in the faintest hint of Southern accent that nonetheless makes Bitty feel very at home.

“I’m fine!” He aims a smile at her as he sets a timer for the pie. “Need any help?”

“Well, if you’re offering…” She shrugs at him, turning on one of the taps and plugging the drain. “But don’t wear yourself out, ya hear? Even young people don’t have an infinite supply of energy, and you’re looking mighty tired.”

“It’s not a problem.” He picks up a plate off of the towering stack. “’Sides, being in the kitchen is comforting. Reminds me of home.”

Nancy eyes him appraisingly, then hands him the soap and says, “Tell me, boy. What’s got your head in a tizzy?”

Bitty wrinkles his nose and almost says _boy problems_ , but he catches himself at the last minute because he doesn’t want to see her recoil—

Hang on. Actually—what could it hurt? Nancy’s been nothing but sweet to him, and he hasn’t yet met anyone here who hasn’t been incredibly accepting, so maybe, just maybe, it’ll be all right...?

Carefully, Bitty opens his mouth and says, “There’s a boy I’ve been thinkin’ about.”

“Aw, damn. I’ve been there, hun.” She nudges his arm with a sudsy hand. “What’s going on? Is he being mean to you?”

Bitty flushes, but it’s mostly out of relief—thank God for the people here, honestly. They’re nothing like everyone who’d gone to his high school—he supposes it says something that an under-the-table assassin group is more open-minded than they were.

“Not exactly,” he answers Nancy. “More like—I’m not sure if he’s interested.” He’s definitely omitting the fact that there’s two of them; common decency only goes so far, after all.

“Well, from what I’ve experienced, you ain’t gonna get anywhere if you don’t try and ask,” Nancy says, rinsing off a bowl. “You have to be able to take a hint, but you won’t be getting many hints if you don’t let on that you’re amenable to something more.”

Bitty nods slowly. “I guess so. It’s just—hard.” He sighs.

“What, you’re expecting it to be easy?” She raises an eyebrow at him.

 “Ugh—point taken,” Bitty says wryly. “Thanks for the advice, though.”

“No worries. Just moving the plot along. Plus I’m nosy.” She grins.

Something about what she’d just said reminds Bitty startlingly of someone else. But before he can put his finger on who, his hands slip and he drops a plate, and he’s too preoccupied with cleaning the shards up to think about it afterward.

xXx

_You ain’t gonna get anywhere if you don’t try and ask_ , Nancy said. And now Bitty’s here in Zimms’ room, idly pushing his pie around his plate because he’d barely felt hungry enough to eat dinner, let alone dessert on top of that.

Parse and Zimms are chatting jovially, laughing so much it’s nearly flirting. Bitty’s long since lost the train of their conversation, wound tight in his thoughts as he is, but he doesn’t think he’s imagining the sexual tension in the air—they’re going to sleep together tonight. _Without him_ , his brain adds unhelpfully, and now he’s thinking about them fucking, about Parse pressing inside Zimms or maybe the other way around, _God_ —

“Bitty?” Parse prompts, and Bitty jerks his head up.

“Huh?”

“You’re bright red,” Parse observes, raising an eyebrow.

“Ugh,” Bitty groans. “Just—don’t mind me, y’all.”

Zimms looks at him, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “I dunno—I kind of want to know what you’re thinking about.”

“You know, I think I do too.” Parse smirks.

Bitty glares at both of them. “That’s not fair! There are two of you,” he grumbles, and then he flushes even more because _two of them, having sex, oh God_ —

“Can we guess?” Kent nudges at Bitty’s ankle under the table.

Bitty’s about to blurt out a ‘no’ when he realizes—hell, why not? Odds are they aren’t going to guess what he’s actually thinking anyways, so it’s not like it would hurt—and if they _do_ guess, well—he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. “You can try,” he drawls instead.

“Are you thinking about kissing Parse?” Zimms says immediately, looking very, very interested.

God. Bitty gives him a pained look. “Why is that the first thing you think of?” he whines, face burning.

“Well—was I right?” Zimms smirks gently, and Bitty has to avert his eyes because Zimms is looking at him in a way that makes Bitty want all sorts of things, things that he shouldn’t want from Zimms at all.

It’s too bad he can’t help it.

“Um. Sort of,” he admits, crossing his arms around himself.

“Oh?” Parse waggles his eyebrows, and Bitty looks at him and all he can think about is last night, Bitty’s name falling from Parse’s lips and Parse’s hand squeezing tight around Bitty’s own, Lord.

Bitty opens his mouth to speak but the nervousness has trapped his voice in, so he simply shakes his head. “N-never mind.”

“Bits.” Parse nudges his ankle again, smirking. “Are you thinking about— _other_ things?”

Bitty kind of wants to hide, because _God_ this is so embarrassing. Instead he replies, “Depends on what you mean,” trying to seem innocent and probably failing.

“Things like fucking,” Parse says bluntly, mischief in his eyes.

Oh _God_ —Bitty covers his face with his hands. Slowly, he nods.

Parse makes a noise of surprise.

Zimms says, “Oh. Huh.”

Bitty hears Parse chuckle at that. “You sound confused.”

“I’m not, I just didn’t expect you to be so forward about it—“

“Are y’all gonna make fun of me?” Bitty mumbles.

“Uh. No? Why would we?” Zimms responds, and Bitty peeks up at him, at both of them. Zimms doesn’t look like he’s laughing at all—he seems more pensive than anything. “I mean—I guess it makes sense for you to be thinking about—sex, with Parse right in front of you. You shouldn’t really be embarrassed—“

“Not just me,” Parse murmurs quietly, setting his hand on his chin.

“Hmm?” Zimms raises his eyebrows.

“You’re here too.” Parse winks at Zimms.

Oh, _God_.

Zimms’ eye widen. “Uh—what?”

Parse looks over at Bitty, curious and maybe a little bit eager. “I mean, I might be wrong, but—I’m not the only one you’re thinking about, am I?” he asks, and Bitty blushes furiously, feeling kind of dizzy—God, once he admits it, Zimms will know what Bitty’s been thinking about. He’ll never be able to un-know that information, even if nothing happens between them, Zimms will still know—

Bitty groans, resisting the urge to clunk his head down on the table. “No,” he answers quietly.

“You’re thinking about Zimms, too,” Parse says, and it isn’t a question.

Bitty’s neck feels very, very warm. “I—oh, hell. Yes,” he mutters. There’s a huge possibility they’re going to laugh at him for being _silly_ now and Bitty should probably leave before this gets any worse—

 “Oh, um. That’s… okay,” Zimms says carefully. His voice sounds breathy, and Bitty shivers.

“What—really?” He looks up at Zimms.

Zimms looks bemused. “I can’t really stop you, can I?” he asks. “So don’t feel bad.”

“I guess so,” Bitty says, his heart falling.

That’s it. Zimms is okay with it, but he doesn’t seem _interested_ —the conversation is basically over, then.

Bitty is more disappointed than he’d expected to be, to tell the truth.

But then—Parse opens his mouth and says, “Hey, Bits. C’mere.”

Bitty flicks his eyes over at Zimms as he stands, but Zimms’ expression doesn’t give anything away, so Bitty shuffles over and lets Parse pull him sideways into his lap. And then Parse is tugging him closer so that Bitty’s body is pressed up against Parse’s own, and God, what are they doing? Zimms is _right there._ But Parse’s eyes are darkened with lust, as if this truly is something he wants—Bitty here in his lap, skin warm through their clothing even with Zimms sitting only a few feet away, _Lord_ —

“Parse?” Bitty breathes, heart racing faster than even during sparring practice.

Parse grins softly at him and takes Bitty’s hand in one of his own. His other hand slides up to cradle Bitty’s neck, making everything feel so, so warm—and Zimms is watching and Bitty is so fucking turned on just from being pressed against Parse like this. And then Parse lurches forward and pulls him down for a desperate kiss, their lips crashing together, _fuck_ , and Bitty can’t even think before he’s twisting his hands into Parse’s hair, tugging on the curls there as Parse’s tongue slides hot and slick into Bitty’s mouth—

Quietly, Zimms chuckles. Bitty can’t help breaking the kiss and looking over at him, and he’s flushing probably worse than he ever has in his life because Zimms just watched them _kiss_ , oh God. “I—um,” he swallows, chest heaving.

“Don’t worry,” Parse says, leaning up and kissing his jawbone, right near his ear. “I think he likes it.” His breath is hot on Bitty’s neck, and Bitty shudders into it.

“Um. Do you?” Bitty asks Zimms, feeling timid.

Zimms swallows. “Uh—yes,” he says, voice rough, and it’s only then that Bitty realizes that the way his pupils are blown out probably means that he’s _turned on_ , holy hell.

There’s a tense moment of silence while the three of them stare at each other—Parse looks breathless and Zimms looks aroused and Bitty’s half-hard already, dick pressing insistently at the inside of his shorts. He wills someone, anyone to speak, because any sound he makes right now is going to come out as a whimper, he just knows it.

Slowly, Parse slips his hand down Bitty’s waist, over his thigh, making Bitty’s heart beat recklessly, out of control. And then that hand moves closer, closer, _oh God_ , until he’s cupping Bitty’s dick through his shorts, right in the open where Zimms can see—Bitty moans at the touch, hiding his face briefly in Parse’s neck.

“Lord,” he sighs.

“This okay?” Parse whispers, and Bitty nods slowly, accidentally making eye contact with Zimms—and Zimms’ mouth is hanging half open as he watches them, as Bitty slowly grows hard under the heat of Parse’s fingers, fuck.

Finally, Zimms sighs, something like regret forming in his eyes. “Technically, I’m your superior,” he says to Bitty, lips twisting.

And damnit, he’s going to say no to this, no to anything. Bitty’s hope diminishes again—God.

“You’re my superior too, Zimms,” Parse points out.

“That’s—different, and you know it,” Zimms gives Parse a look, and Bitty’s curious as to why, but it’s not compelling enough for him to interrupt Zimms’ train of thought. “I shouldn’t—do anything with you, Bitty. It’s an abuse of power. Technically Parse shouldn’t be doing things with you either, but there’s not much use stopping something that’s already happened.” Zimms shrugs wryly. “Uh—sorry.”

Bitty sighs and nods, disappointment and a little bit of shame twisting in his gut. “It’s all right. I kinda figured something like that would come up,” he murmurs, wishing he didn’t feel so let-down. “I mean, I was gonna suggest that we use it as training, but—“

Zimms’ brows furrow. “Hang on, what?”

“I’m—I’m real worried,” Bitty swallows, and a look of understanding appears on Parse’s face as he continues. “Parse said last night that sometimes you have to—have sex when you’re on missions. And I haven’t done barely anything sex-wise—and I know he said that I can decide not to, but what if it’s necessary? I don’t want to be the reason y’all fail.”

Slowly, Zimms blinks. “Training,” he murmurs. “You want—us to teach you?”

Beside Bitty, Parse slowly starts laughing. “Oh my God. Bitty, you’ve got Zimms all figured out, don’t you?”

“What do you mean?” Bitty looks at him, eyes wide.

“Zimms’ll agree to anything if it’s training-related,” Parse says.

Zimms leans over and gives him a shove, and Bitty has to cling to Parse’s shaking shoulders to keep from tumbling off of him. “That’s not true,” Zimms grumbles. “Not _anything_.”

“So not this?” Parse arches a brow.

“Depends on what ‘this’ is,” Zimms replies, the edges of a modest smile pricking at his lips nonetheless. And Bitty realizes—oh, _wow_. Maybe, just maybe, Zimms might be changing his mind—and that causes Bitty’s hope to resurrect itself in his chest, dancing around in a way that makes his limbs feel fluttery.

“Well, if I’m not mistaken—it’s you, me, and Bits having sex. Right?” Parse looks at Bitty, and Bitty gives a quick nod, pulse pounding where his palms are still pressed to Parse’s shoulders. He wants it, Lord, he wants it so badly.

“Maybe.” Zimms chews his lip. “But only if we teach him things,” he adds, eyeing Bitty with a gaze that makes him want to shiver. Then he smiles, and oh gosh, and Bitty’s heart feels lighter than it’s felt in days.

“Y’all can teach me anything you want,” he murmurs, and he doesn’t mean to sound so sultry but Parse and Zimms both look at him with arousal dark in their eyes, and—well. Bitty’s not going to say no to any of this. “Is—is this okay?” he asks Zimms, just to be sure.

“This can’t get out, you know,” Zimms says, shifting his chair closer.

“I can keep a secret.” Bitty smiles demurely, and at that Parse laughs, sliding his hands around to cup Bitty’s ass. Bitty flushes intensely, because Parse had been touching him before but this is still so undeniably sexual, and now he’s thinking of Parse touching his ass in other ways and—“Lord,” he groans.

“Okay,” Zimms says, “Okay. Can I—watch you guys make out again?”

Bitty giggles, delirious, as Parse waggles his eyebrows and says, “Sure, Zimms.” And then he leans in and catches Bitty’s lips in a kiss, and Bitty can’t laugh anymore because Parse’s hands are hot on his ass, stroking lightly as Bitty flicks his tongue against Parse’s lips. They break for air and Bitty can’t resist looking over at Zimms, who’s leaning over close enough to touch, a light flush high in his cheeks. “Like this?” Bitty grins at him, and it’s a bit flirty but he doesn’t care because Zimms responds with a low growl that sounds suspiciously like _bedroom, now_.

And then Parse slips his arm under Bitty’s knees and stands, lifting him up into the air—“ _Parse!_ ” Bitty squeaks, scrabbling for a handhold, and it feels sort of undignified but it’s worth it to see the laughter on Zimms’ face.

“Come on.” Zimms stands too, heading into another room—the bedroom. Zimms and Parse are taking him to bed, literally, and it’s not just for innocent cuddling or even making out—they’re going to have sex, they’re going to _fuck_ , oh _God_ —Bitty suddenly feels nervous as they cross the threshold. He doesn’t know much of anything about sex beyond what he’s been able to find from basic Google searches on Incognito mode, but—well. He won’t get anywhere if he lets thoughts of inadequacy bog him down, so instead he shoulders it all, resolving not to worry. They’re not expecting him to know anything, after all—it’s silly to be concerned about it, right?

Parse stands him up near Zimms’ dresser, grinning deviously. “Hey, Bits—want Zimms to kiss you?”

Bitty stutters a nod—and then he flushes brightly as Zimms smirks at him, stepping closer. “You’ve been thinking about me, eh?”

Bitty reaches back and grips the edge of the dresser, breath coming faster in anticipation. “Maybe,” he says coyly, and he has the pleasure of seeing Zimms’ breath hitch at that.

Zimms presses closer, bracketing Bitty’s thighs with his own and leaning down with his palms flat on either side of him. Suddenly everything around Bitty is Zimms, his scent, his face, his blue, blue eyes—and then Zimms smirks at him and says, “You didn’t flinch. Good for you.”

And before Bitty can get a retort in, Zimms kisses him. Bitty’s heart nearly explodes out of his chest because the stubble and tongue and the soft press of lips is setting him on fire, sending tender feelings spiraling out of control, all throughout his body. Zimms slides his hands up Bitty’s arms and bites gently at Bitty’s bottom lip, and Bitty can’t help letting out a little whimper, clutching at the dresser behind him for dear life. Then Zimms shifts forward, closer, and Bitty can feel where he’s hard in his jeans. Bitty groans, can’t stop help himself from pressing back with a small thrust of his hips, _God_.

“Shit, you guys are hot,” Bitty hears Parse say, and he opens his eyes—Parse is stripping off his shirt, and oh, _Lord_. Bitty’s seen him naked before several times, but he’s never been allowed to _look_ , to drink his fill and maybe even—fuck, maybe even touch him.

Against him, Zimms snorts. “I think he wants you,” he says to Parse, tone laden with amusement. He makes no indication of moving, but gosh, Bitty’s not going to protest the closeness because then Parse comes over and slips his arms around both of their shoulders, smirk in full force.

“Like what you see?” Parse leans in close to Bitty’s face, and something about being so close to Parse while he’s half-naked rips a feral whine out of Bitty’s lungs.

“ _Parse_ ,” he groans, and then Parse slants forward and kisses him soundly, grabbing at one of Bitty’s hands and pulling it to rest on his own chest. The skin is hot and smooth under Bitty’s fingers, somehow better than he’d even imagined because it’s Parse, warm and alive under Bitty’s touch—Bitty slides his fingers over Parse’s torso, his abs, down to the very edge of Parse’s jeans.

“Woah, now.” Parse breaks the kiss, winking. He still has one arm looped around Zimms’ neck and Zimms doesn’t seem to mind it at all, instead grinning widely at both of them. He looks… happy.

“I—can I?” Bitty asks, fingering the hem of Parse’s pants and swallowing heavily.

“Only if you let Zimms take yours off too,” Parse says, looking at him almost hungrily, and—oh, gosh, Parse wants him, wants to see him _naked_ , _oh_ _Lord_.

“Um, okay.” Bitty flushes, flicking his eyes to Zimms, who’s still grinning. Slowly, Zimms takes a hand off of the dresser and slides it, slightly cool, up the inside of Bitty’s shirt—and then Parse’s hand is sliding up his other side and they’re lifting Bitty’s shirt over his head in an act that’s way more coordinated than it should be—“Have you two done this before?” Bitty raises his eyebrows, watching as Parse flicks his shirt into the floor.

“Nope. We’ve just trained a lot at, uh, clothing removal.” Parse grins.

Zimms hip checks him with a playful glare. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Of course not.” Parse affects an innocent expression, nodding wisely. “Training is very serious business.”

Bitty snorts. “I think he’s making fun of you,” he stage-whispers to Zimms.

“Lies! Slander!” Parse laughs, and then Zimms nearly launches himself at Parse, slamming him against the dresser so quickly that Bitty can feel it shake when Zimms finally kisses him. And—hell. Watching them kiss is like watching a force of nature, a storm in progress, thunderclouds rushing together in a frantic tangle of limbs. Parse manages to shuck Zimms’ shirt in a matter of seconds, and then they’re on each other again, wordless groans escaping Parse’s mouth as their lips slide together. It’s so sensual, so much _skin_ , and Bitty aches to touch someone, either of them, fuck.

Parse pulls back so slowly that Bitty can see the spit that connects their lips, and Parse is staring into Zimms’ eyes, looking passionate enough that Bitty doesn’t know how Zimms isn’t buckling form the force of it.

“Hey, look at you,” Parse whispers. “Wanna blow Bitty?”

Bitty lets out a nervous squeak at that, and a smirk curves on Zimms’ lips as he turns to appraise him. “Hmm,” Zimms says, looking Bitty up and down and sending heat sparking all through his body. “I could be convinced.”

“Stamina training?” Bitty offers, and Parse lets out a hearty laugh at Zimms’ disgruntled expression.

“You know what helps with stamina?” Zimms pushes himself away from Parse, stepping over in front of Bitty and dropping to his knees. Bitty has just enough time to admire the sight of him shirtless, a soft smattering of chest hair decorating his torso—and fuck, his _muscles_ , what did Bitty do to deserve this?—when Zimms opens his mouth and continues, “—Eating more protein.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Bitty huffs, throwing a glare at Parse when he laughs. But then a smirk spreads on his face and he retorts, “Isn’t that what _you’re_ about to do?”

Slowly, Zimms raises an eyebrow. He stares at Bitty for a good couple of seconds before bursting into laughter. “Touché.” He grins. “Actually, though, we should probably use a condom.”

Bitty snorts at that, feeling giddy as Parse makes his way over to Zimms’ nightstand drawer, flicking a condom in their direction. Zimms catches it, handing it to Bitty, and then Zimms slides his hands down his waist until they’re cupping his hips. Bitty can’t help gasping a little as Zimms hooks a finger into his shorts. This is _happening_ , he’s getting undressed and Zimms is going to—with his mouth— _God_ , he’s nearly delirious from the pounding of his heart.

Zimms smiles up at him and tugs Bitty’s shorts and boxers down in one smooth move. Bitty’s cock springs out as his shorts fall to the floor around his ankles—and then Parse is in front of him too, staring hotly at Bitty’s body. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Parse mumbles. “I’ve never let myself look before—fuck,” he sighs.

“You wanna blow him instead?” Zimms arches a brow, and the thought sends a ping of lust shooting down Bitty’s spine.

But Parse shakes his head. “Nah, you’re better at it,” he tells Zimms.

“I dunno—“

“He can deepthroat,” Parse tells Bitty, winking, and Bitty lets out a surprised cough.

“Ohmygosh, um!”

“ _Parse_.”

“What? It’s true.” Parse snickers, stepping over so that he can lean against the dresser next to Bitty. “Besides—I wanna watch your face,” he murmurs, his voice more tender than Bitty would ever have expected— _oh, Lord_.

“Suit yourself,” Zimms says, eyes flicking over Bitty’s cock. “Here,” he says to Bitty, “I’ll show you how to put the condom on.”

Bitty follows Zimms’ instructions to the T, pinching the tip of the condom with shaking fingers and rolling it over himself. And then Zimms takes him in hand, stroking him once, and Bitty’s mouth falls open. “ _God_ ,” he gasps, oh God, oh God.

He’s—he’s going to have sex. Zimms is getting ready to suck his dick, and the only time he’s _ever_ had someone else’s hands on him like this was when he’d had a fairly terrible handjob from a girl that he’d rather not think about. But now Zimms is going to lick him and Bitty’s fairly sure he’s going to come embarrassingly quickly, stamina jokes be damned, so all he can really do is hold the fuck on.

He reaches behind himself and grips the dresser again.

“Might as well teach you a couple of things while I’m at it.” Zimms continues to stroke him achingly slowly, and Bitty gives him a fast nod, ever-so aware of Parse leaning casually against the dresser beside him. “Most of the time, sex on the job involves getting information. You never, ever want to do it with a mark,” Zimms tells him, voice dipping low in a way that ends up sounding unfairly sexy considering the subject of his words.

“Why-y?” Bitty’s breath hitches as Zimms twists his hand up and around him.

“That should be obvious.” Zimms arches a brow. “Getting too close to a person you’re supposed to kill can make it really hard to kill them in the end.”

Parse groans, and Bitty tries not to let the trickle of shame running down his back overwhelm him. “Shit, I already apologized, didn’t I?” Parse says. “You don’t have to keep bringing it up.”

Zimms snorts, flicking him in the knee. “Just making a point.”

“Fine.” Parse sighs, reaching down and sliding his hand through Zimms’ hair. The motion is fond, despite his earlier frustration, and the way they look at each other then is so intense that Bitty has to look away for a moment. “You gonna suck him off or what?” Parse licks his lips.

“In a minute. God, you’re being more impatient than he is, and I’ve got his dick in my hand.” Zimms chuckles.

Parse rolls his eyes, but Bitty leans into him for a moment. “S’okay,” Bitty mumbles. “I should hear this.”

“He’s gonna make you feel so good,” Parse whispers, and the rush of syllables makes Bitty shudder.

“Hey, you’re distracting him.” Zimms flicks Parse in the knee again, this time smiling playfully. Parse gently kicks Zimms’ thigh with his socked foot and Zimms makes a grab for it, squeezing his ankle briefly before letting it go. “As I was saying,” Zimms turns back to Bitty, “Never sleep with marks. And always get approval before you do it—it can be very easy to let info slip when your guard is down.”

“Noted.” Bitty nods, gasping slightly as Zimms starts stroking him faster.

“One last thing—you have to make sure they trust you,” Zimms says. “And the best way to get people to trust you—is to pretend you care.”

Bitty nods because that makes sense—people will trust you more if you seem invested in them. Hell, that’s exactly what had happened with he and Parse, weeks ago.

But two things happen then.

Zimms leans down and finally, _finally_ wraps his mouth around the head of Bitty’s cock, and Bitty lets out a sharp keen and his knees nearly buckle, _oh_ —

And beside Bitty, Parse’s whole body tenses.

Zimms is otherwise occupied, so he doesn’t notice. But Bitty notices. He looks up at Parse, heart pounding frantically because Zimms is hot and slick around him, fuck, _fuck_ —and Parse’s whole face is white. He looks shattered, and Bitty’s so overwhelmed because Parse looks _hurt_ but it’s so hard to pay attention to that with Zimms sucking him down deeper, deeper, until his nose nudges the curls at the base of Bitty’s cock—“ _Ahh_ , Zi—fuck, oh hell, that’s so— _Zimms_ ,” he babbles helplessly.

He tentatively glances at Parse again, and Parse looks shell-shocked as he stares at them, stares at where Bitty’s cock is slowly slipping in and out of Zimms’ mouth, _hell_. Bitty can’t tell if Parse is reacting to what Zimms had just said or to the fact that Zimms currently has Bitty’s dick in his mouth, but he kind of thinks it’s the former—Parse had _wanted_ Zimms to suck him off, so it should be okay—

And then Zimms flicks his tongue over the head in a way that makes Bitty want to cry, it feels so good. He’s having trouble stringing coherent thoughts together because—“ _Fuck!_ ” he whines. This feels so, so good, too good, he can’t think—he starts moaning, his voice coming out high and breathy, and Zimms gives him a playful look before deliberately circling his tongue around the tip—oh, fuck. It’s _obscene_ , the way it looks, the way Zimms bobs his head down afterwards, the way the head of Bitty’s cock slides further, further, and he could swear it’s knocking against the back of Zimms throat right now, _God_.

Desperately, Bitty reaches his hand out and finds Parse’s, and he’s dimly aware of Parse slowly relaxing, thank goodness. “Bits,” Parse murmurs, and then, “Fuck, that’s so sexy.”

He’s okay. They’re okay. Bitty still wants to ask about before, about why Parse had looked so unhappy, but now isn’t really the time—especially since every slick movement of Zimms’ mouth is pulling Bitty closer and closer to the edge, _fuck_.

Parse reaches up and nudges Bitty’s cheek so that his head turns. Then Parse kisses him full on, devouring him just like Zimms is, slipping his tongue into Bitty’s mouth in a way that matches the rhythm of Zimms’ bobbing head—and _God_ , they’re ripping him apart into at least two separate pieces, pulling him like taffy until he’s gooey and compliant in their arms.

When Parse pulls back, his eyes are half-lidded and his breath feels hot on Bitty’s cheek—and God, Parse looks so turned on. Parse thinks this is attractive, doesn’t he? He thinks _they’re_ attractive, Bitty and Zimms together, Bitty clutching one-handedly at the dresser in an attempt to keep from fucking himself down Zimms’ throat. It sends little sparks of happiness dancing along his spine—Bitty wants to be sexy for Parse, wants Parse to at least think he’s attractive, even if Parse feelings toward him don’t amount to anything more meaningful than that.

“I’m—Parse, I’m—” Bitty cuts off a whimper by pressing his mouth into Parse’s shoulder, breathing as deeply as he can, his heart pounding like he’s just run a marathon. Zimms has a hand on him now, working the whole length of Bitty’s cock alongside his mouth, and he’s making slick sounds around him that are driving Bitty insane. “I’m not—I can’t last, it’s too—fuck, _fuck_.” Bitty shudders wildly.

Parse slides a hand around his waist and leans in, his lips brushing the shell of Bitty’s ear. “It’s okay, babe. Come on, come for me, come for us,” he murmurs, and—

“ _Oh—_ I, fuck, _ohh!_ ” Bitty slams straight into the wall of pleasure that’s been building steadily in his body, _God_ , and he’s shuddering wildly, clinging to Parse just to stay standing as his whole body tries to collapse with the overwhelming sensation of his release.

Zimms stands sinuously when he’s done, wiping the saliva from his lips off on the back of his arm and giving Bitty a soft grin. “Was that—what you were thinking about, before?”

“I—“ Bitty shivers, leaning into Parse, who’s rubbing small circles into his hipbone with his thumb. It’s definitely true—he’d thought about Zimms sucking him, or maybe fucking him, thought of so many things that he’d thought were honestly impossible at the time. “Yeah, I was—that was—oh God, I didn’t think anything would actually _happen_. That was so— _good_.” He shivers, because this is already so much more than he’d expected and he doesn’t even think it’s over yet.

Zimms’ grin gets somehow even softer. “I’m glad—I wanted to make it good for you,” he murmurs, and Bitty stares up at him with his heart thumping erratically, and oh—Zimms looks almost shy, the way he’s smiling at Bitty.

“It was really good,” Bitty says again, smiling back. He looks at Parse, and Parse is gazing warmly at them, eyes seeming more blue than green—and oh, Bitty thinks, they change color. He’s never noticed it before. “Um—what now?” Bitty asks tentatively, impulsively reaching forward and taking one of Zimms’ hands with the arm that isn’t anchored to Parse. Zimms squeezes back, thumb tracing over the back of Bitty’s hand.

“Hmm.” Parse nuzzles at Bitty’s neck, the heat of his breath making Bitty’s skin tingle. “How fast do you think you can get hard for me?” he asks huskily.

And, oh God, the words echo vividly in Bitty’s head, _hard for me, for me—hard for_ Parse—and oh, the way Parse is looking at him makes Bitty think that the task at hand isn’t going to be difficult at all.

“I—um, I might need a minute,” he mumbles sheepishly, just to be safe.

“That’s okay.” Parse grins at him. “It takes longer than a minute for me to open myself up, you know.”

Bitty stares at him. “I—what?” he gasps out, arousal exploding in his limbs.

He fidgets, hearing Zimms chuckle, but he can’t take his eyes off of Parse for one moment as Parse looks at him and says, “I wouldn’t say no to having you fuck me tonight.”

Bitty must be dead. He must have died and gone to heaven, because the image of Parse right in front of him, asking Bitty to fuck him, _God_ —this has been the stuff of his daydreams for nearly the whole time he’s been here, certainly since that time in the shower. “I—oh, goodness, yes. I mean—if that’s okay?” He looks to Zimms.

Rather than looking reluctant like Bitty’s still sort of expecting, Zimms instead looks captivated. “Yes,” he hisses. “That’s okay.”

Bitty lets his eyes flutter shut as a groan escapes his mouth without warning—yeah, his dick is already twitching in anticipation. It won’t be long until he’s ready again. “You said—you’re gonna open yourself up?”

Parse smirks at him. “Sure. Unless you wanna do it.”

“I—God, I don’t know how.” Bitty bites his lip.

Zimms raises his eyebrows. “I can teach you,” he offers. “You can watch me, or I can do it to you—“

“ _Nngh_.” Bitty shivers at that, because oh goodness, _yes_.

“Oh?” Zimms smirks.

“I—the second one, I mean—please,” Bitty says, resisting the urge to turn and bury his face in Parse’s shoulder.

“Say that again?” Zimms smirk widens.

Bitty’s face flames. “ _Zimms_ ,” he groans, and then he looks over to Parse to appeal to him.

But Parse is also smirking, God. “I wanna hear it too.” He waggles his eyebrows.

Bitty rolls his eyes. “You _boys_ —ugh, fine.” He straightens up, distinctly aware that he’s _still_ the only one naked, and crosses his arms. “I want you to finger-fuck me,” he drawls, looking straight up at Zimms.

Zimms makes a half-aborted choking noise. “God—where did that come from?”

“He’s been learning from the best.” Parse snickers, nonetheless looking very, very aroused.

“Hey—I’ve been able to talk dirty since before I met either of y’all. In fact, I’ll have you know that before I graduated, I—“

“Bitty.” Parse loops his arm around Bitty’s shoulders, effectively stopping him mid-ramble with the heat in his eyes.

“Huh?” Bitty asks, heart stuttering.

“Let’s go clean off.”

“Mmn. Okay,” Bitty says, and then he follows him to the bathroom, glancing back to see Zimms’ eyes tracking their movements every step of the way.

Bitty discards his condom, and then Parse sheds his own clothes and shows him how to clean himself up—Bitty expects to feel kind of silly about it, but there’s an overlying layer of sexual tension that’s wrapping around them like a blanket, damping down on all of Bitty’s insecurities and making every exchange feel like sparks crackling through his veins.

Also, he gets to look at Parse naked now. Bitty’s not going to complain about that one bit, especially when Parse bends down to get something out from under the sink, and Bitty lets out a little gasp—“Oh, honey,” he breathes.

“Hmm?” Parse straightens.

“Your ass—God, you’re gorgeous.” Bitty flushes, because oh Lord, he’s going to be fucking that ass very soon, isn’t he?

Parse lets out a laugh. “Zimms’ ass is better, you know.” He shrugs, but Bitty can tell that he’s pleased, and it makes him feel as warm as the way the oven heats the kitchen at wintertime.

When they’ve finished cleaning, Bitty follows Parse back into the bedroom to find Zimms, naked, cock in hand, stroking himself leisurely. Zimms’ expression brightens into a grin when he sees them, and it makes something in Bitty’s chest go all tight, enough that he nearly trips over his own shirt lying in the floor—Parse steadies him, then raises an eyebrow and pushes him toward the bed so that he loses his balance and flops down against the mattress. Bitty doesn’t even flinch, instead laughing giddily, gosh. He hopes Zimms is proud of him.

He shifts so that he’s lying next to Zimms, and Parse crawls over him with an almost predatory stare. He slides his hand down Bitty’s chest, over his stomach, his hip, his thigh, leaving a hot trail of tingling skin wherever he touches, and Bitty whimpers quietly. “I, um—aren’t I supposed to be doing this to you?” He swallows, heart fluttering intensely as Parse nudges his legs open.

Parse chuckles. “Yeah, I know. I just—like touching you,” he breathes, and Bitty feels so fucking warm and happy that he could lose himself in it.

“Oh, Parse.” Bitty sits up and kisses him, and they’re allowed to do that now even with Zimms there—and when Bitty glances at Zimms out of the corner of his eye, he sees that Zimms is watching them avidly, watching as Parse licks his way into Bitty’s mouth, _oh_.

At some point Zimms lightly shoves them aside so he can put a towel down, pulling out a bottle of lube, and the fluttering in Bitty’s chest starts speeding faster than a smoothie in a blender. He feels trembly as Parse gets on his hands and knees in front of them, and then Zimms is behind him, nudging Bitty’s knees apart, hand already slicked. “I, um.” Bitty swallows, looking over his shoulder at him. “What should I do?”

Zimms hands him the bottle. “Lube up your fingers really well. Don’t worry about spilling—that’s what the towel’s for. Then—hmm, just do what I do to you, if you can manage it.”

Bitty feels his face heat as he nods silently and drips lube over his hand. “Don’t be nervous,” Parse says, looking back at him. “You’re gonna do fine. Fuck, I really want your fingers in me,” he adds, and Bitty groans desperately.

“O—okay,” he sighs, and then he nearly chokes when he feels one of Zimms’ hands spreading his ass open. He shuts his eyes for a moment, just to feel it, letting out a nervous whimper when Zimms’ lube-slick finger grazes his entrance. He’s a little thankful when Zimms doesn’t push in just yet, stroking his finger lightly back and forth while Bitty gets used to it, and—“Oh—that feels really nice, actually,” he murmurs.

“Good,” Zimms says, and Bitty can hear the smile behind the syllable.

“Bits—touch me,” Parse whines, and laughter bubbles from Bitty’s chest at the urgency in his voice.

“Fine, fine—impatient,” he mumbles, nonetheless sliding a hand up Kent’s thigh to his ass, squeezing the soft flesh there, carefully spreading him open and using a slick finger to circle at Parse’s puckered hole just as Zimms is doing to Bitty.

“You can push in, you know.” Parse presses his hips back, but it’s in vain because Bitty just moves his finger away until Parse stops pushing.

“I’m just doing what Zimms does,” he defends, sliding his finger over Parse’s entrance again.

“Oh my God, _Zimms_ ,” Parse groans, “Are you fucking using him to _tease_ me?”

Zimms snorts. “Maybe,” he says, and Bitty starts laughing too.

“Fuck.” Parse drops his head into the pillows. “I need—fuck.”

And oh, wow—Parse really, really wants Bitty’s fingers in him, doesn’t he? Bitty feels heady with the knowledge, teasing at Parse’s hole, pressing almost hard enough to slide in but not quite—and Parse lets out a long groan.

Oh. Bitty likes this, likes teasing him. That’s something new.

“Bitty, please.” Parse trembles when Bitty starts tapping lightly against his opening. “I need— _please_.”

“What do you want, honey?” Bitty says softly, his mouth going dry as Zimms presses his finger against him more insistently, pressing in a way that means—oh, oh God, he’s pushing in, and it’s only a little bit but Bitty has to stop himself from clenching because it feels funny and also kind of hot.

“I need your fingers in me, Bitty, I need—fuck me with them, please,” Parse whines.

And so Bitty takes his finger and pushes. It slides in easier than he’d expected even though it’s so _tight_ , and he’s got it halfway in before he even stops to consider that it might be better to do it slower—so he pulls it out a little, sticking to smaller thrusts just in case Parse isn’t ready yet—

“ _Fuck_!” Parse cries out. His whole body is trembling, and Bitty’s not sure if that’s a good thing until Parse adds, “You don’t—you don’t have to go that slow, Jesus, fuck!”

“Oh?” Bitty grins, and then because he’s curious he starts moving even slower. Parse’s subsequent drawn out groan makes him feel light-headed, and God, he’s hard again, even with the slight weirdness of Zimms finger pushing steadily up into him.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” Parse spits out, shuddering.

“Payback,” Bitty retorts, at which Zimms snorts behind him. And then Bitty takes a deep breath and pushes his finger all the way in, far enough that his knuckles press against Parse’s ass.

Parse _sobs_.

“ _F-fuck_ , Bitty, more, I need—just fucking, come on, please, you can put another in but _ple-ease_ —“

“Shh, okay, okay.” Bitty strokes the curve of his ass, pulling his finger almost all the way out before wriggling another one in beside it, sliding them in with short little thrusts. “Like that?”

“Yes, yes, thank you, oh _fuck_.” Parse sighs, pressing back on Bitty’s fingers in a way that sends a jolt of lust to Bitty’s cock.

“Want me to add another?” Zimms says at his ear, as Bitty starts thrusting his fingers in earnest. “I mean—would you want to bottom tonight?”

Bitty shivers. “I, um—I dunno if I’m—ready.” He swallows. He feels kind of out of his depth right now, because even the thought of having just one more finger inside him seems intense and kind of scary—he’s so tight around Zimms already, would it even _fit_?

“That’s okay.” Zimms presses a kiss to Bitty’s shoulder, and it feels sweet—something akin to loving. Bitty turns his head to look at him and Zimms’ gaze is soft, tentative—he leans forward and kisses Bitty lightly. “This is nice,” he murmurs.

“Yeah.” Bitty grins at him.

“ _Bitty_ ,” Parse groans, looking back at them. “Stop _flirting_ and touch me.”

Bitty flushes as he realizes he’d stopped moving his fingers—and _flirting_ , God, okay yeah, technically it’s flirting, but also Zimms’ finger is kind of already up his ass, so—“Aren’t you being a lil pushy?” he asks, eyebrows flying up at Parse.

“Maybe,” Parse says sulkily, but then Bitty starts moving his fingers again and he groans, “God, yesss.”

“I’m gonna show you something, if that’s okay,” Zimms murmurs in Bitty’s ear.

Curious, Bitty nods. And then Zimms presses his finger in further, like he’s searching for something, and—“ _Oh my God!_ ” Oh, _oh_ —Bitty’s hips buck, nearly dislodging Zimms’ finger, but then Zimms grabs at his hip and holds him so he can aim at that spot again and _oh, fuck fuck fuck_ —Bitty cries out brokenly, “ _Ahh_ —that’s s-so, oh my God, that’s so much, _oh_!”

Parse looks back at them, at where Bitty can’t stop shuddering, and a riveted smirk spreads on his face. Zimms chuckles, sounding fond. “Want me to keep going?”

“I—I, no, I um—I don’t want to come yet,” Bitty says, trembling. “You can keep your finger, but not—um, not there—it’s so much, oh God.”

Zimms pulls his finger back, and when Bitty glances over at him he looks pleased. “You should try it on him,” Zimms murmurs, motioning at where Bitty’s just barely managed to keep pressing his fingers into Parse.

Parse’s eyes widen. “Oh fuck, Bitty—no, you’re gonna kill me.” He presses his face into the pillow.

“No?” Bitty pauses uncertainly.

“No—I mean, yes—ugh, just—fuck, do it,” Parse groans, and Bitty stares at him, feeling a little bewildered.

“Do it,” Zimms echoes, nuzzling at Bitty’s neck, and a fierce shiver runs down his spine.

“Okay.” He nods, and then he presses his fingers back in, angling them like Zimms had done and—

“ _Fuck fuck shit fuck_ , _fu-uck_ ,” Parse cries out, voice rusty. Bitty pulls out, crooks his fingers in again, again, and Parse jerks against him, sobbing into the pillow.

Zimms lets out a low groan behind them, slowly pulling his own finger out of Bitty. Bitty pauses questioningly to look at him, but then he moans in anticipation as Zimms leans over to pluck a couple of condoms out of the drawer. “Here.” Zimms tosses him one.

Bitty swallows. “Should I keep—I mean, are you stretched enough?” he asks Parse.

“ _Yes_ ,” Parse lifts his head up, looking back at Bitty blearily. “Fuck, I want your dick in me—God. Can I ride you?”

“ _Um!_ ” Bitty flushes violently, sliding his fingers out with a wet squelch.

“You should say yes.” Zimms smirks, raising an eyebrow. “He’s good at that.”

Bitty nods, feeling breathless, heart galloping just about out of his chest. “I—yeah, okay.” He laughs. “Not gonna say no.”

“Come kiss me.” Parse carefully sits up and motions Bitty closer, a grin spreading on his face.

Bitty goes. Parse shifts over so Bitty can sit in the center of the bed, then Parse presses him against the pillows and kisses him, over and over and over until Bitty feels dizzy from it. He feels Zimms crawling up to sit beside him and doesn’t think anything of it until Zimms leans down and starts mouthing at his neck, and _God_ , he’s got two naked boys kissing him now. Parse is half on top of him and Zimms’ hand is warm on his hip and there’s so much _attention_ on him that he blushes all the way down to his chest. “I’m—please,” he whimpers softly, bucking his hips up in an attempt to get some sort of friction, but Parse isn’t quite close enough for it to work.

“Bits—condom.” Parse slides his hand through the sheets to find it, holding it up—and oh, Bitty hadn’t even noticed that he’d dropped it. Parse tears the wrapper open, and Bitty’s about to reach for it so he can put it on but instead Parse straddles his legs, wrapping his hand around Bitty’s cock and slowly rolling the condom over him.

It hits Bitty that this is the first time Parse has touched him like this, naked, hands hot on Bitty’s skin— _fuck_ , having _Parse_ doing this is even more devastating than when Zimms was touching him. Then—oh God, Parse retrieves the lube and starts slicking Bitty up, and Bitty has to desperately think of other things so he doesn’t come right this moment. He can’t help letting out a quiet whimper, at which Parse winks.

“Oh, _God_ ,” Bitty groans, because this is happening—this is Parse, who he’s wanted for as long as he’s been here. He and Parse are going to fuck and it’s not cheating anymore, not at all, because Zimms is sitting right next to him, staring raptly at their bodies and taking his own cock in hand.

“Parse,” Zimms interrupts, as Parse starts positioning himself over Bitty.

“Yeah?”

“Think you can take us both tonight?” Zimms raises a playful eyebrow.

Parse stares at Zimms, eyes wide. “Fuck—yeah, okay, Zimms.”

Bitty’s breath hitches. “Um, not—you mean, at the same time?”

Parse and Zimms look at each other—then they both start laughing, and Bitty flushes. That’s a no, then. “Oh God, that would be—fuck. Not tonight.” Parse shakes his head.

“Oh?” Zimms nudges him. “You want it another night?”

Parse’s face flares red. “Shit, I dunno, maybe?”

Bitty can’t hold back a whimper at that, because _God_ , he’s not even inside Parse yet and they’re already talking about fucking double penetration. “Parse,” he whines, wriggling his hips slightly.

“Fuck—okay,” Parse says, and then he reaches under himself and takes hold of Bitty’s cock and sinks down, slowly, so fucking slowly around him.

“Par— _nngh!_ ” Bitty’s head thumps back into the pillows because it’s so fucking hot and slick and _intimate_. Bitty has to force himself not to move—he doesn’t want to shove himself in before Parse is ready, but it’s so tight and Parse is groaning and clenching at Bitty’s hips and he wants to _move_ , God.

He reaches out to find Parse’s hand but finds Zimms instead, and they look at each other for a surprised moment before Zimms grins at him and squeezes his fingers. “He feels good, eh?”

“Nngh, yes,” Bitty whimpers, clenching at the sheets with his other hand.

“How do we look, Zimms?” Parse says, readjusting himself—and then he sinks down the last little bit and bottoms out, his ass pressing against Bitty’s hips, clenching around him, oh fuck oh fuck, and—“Fuck, you feel good,” Parse mumbles, eyes fluttering. Bitty can only nod desperately in agreement.

Zimms’ eyes are so dark when Bitty looks up at him, and Zimms licks his lips, hand between his legs, jerking himself with slow, firm strokes. “You look—good,” he tells them. “I want both of you.”

“Aww, Zimms.” Parse grins, slowly starting to move on top of Bitty, short little thrusts that send hot sparks ratcheting around Bitty’s body. “We’re right here.”

“Yeah,” Zimms breathes, “Yeah. It’s—God. This is really hot.”

Parse catches Bitty’s eye and nods dramatically. “Hear that? He thinks you’re hot, babe.”

“Not _just_ me,” Bitty deflects, shivering at the casual usage of the nickname. “You, too.”

Parse huffs a laugh. “I knew that already.” He shrugs cockily, and Zimms leans over and nips at his jaw.

“You’re full of shit,” Zimms mumbles, nuzzling into Parse’s neck.

“Maybe.” Parse snorts, raising an eyebrow. “Now move, so I can fuck Bitty?”

“Fine.” Zimms laughs, and Bitty laughs too, barely even thinking about it before pulling Zimms down for a kiss.

Zimms seems surprised at first, but then he relaxes into it, lips moving warmly against Bitty’s. Parse chooses that moment to start fucking Bitty in earnest, lifting himself up and dropping back down, and Bitty cries out into Zimms mouth, _oh_ —he can feel Zimms chuckle against his lips.

Experimentally, Bitty rolls his hips upwards into Parse’s next thrust, and Parse nearly yelps, eyes rolling back in his head. “ _Fuck_ ,” Parse groans, “ _fuck_!”

Everything happens all too quickly after that, because Parse starts moving faster and it’s so, so much, and then Zimms starts kissing at Bitty’s neck and— _oh_ , his skin feels like it’s on fire. He feels just as warm as the last time he’d came, but this feels somehow deeper—his ass is still sensitive from where Zimms had been fingering him, and the memory of Zimms pressing up against his prostate makes him shudder involuntarily. “I might—oh God, Parse— _fuck_ —I’m close again,” he gasps, and Parse leans down and kisses him.

“Go ahead. Come in me,” Parse murmurs, and _God_ , that’s hot, _oh_ —Parse rolls his hips again, once, twice, and Bitty comes.

“Oh, _God_ , fuck, _Parse_ , I—oh, Lord, you’re so—sweet _heart_ ,” he moans, cresting the wave of his orgasm, emotions tangling impossibly tight in his chest.

Parse lets out a delighted little laugh, continuing the motion of his hips until Bitty has to grasp at his thighs to stop him because he’s going soft. “Good?”

Bitty nods, panting, a small smile spreading on his face. He wants to say _perfect_ but that sounds too sappy, so instead he says, “Better than good.”

“You’ve called me a lot of names tonight,” Parse observes, leaning down and kissing his nose.

“It’s—you don’t mind it, right?” Bitty asks tentatively.

“Of course not.” Parse grins. “It’s sweet. God knows Zimms isn’t gonna do it, anyway.”

Zimms frowns at that. “Do you want me to do that?”

“Well, I dunno, maybe,” Parse says, sitting up and climbing off of Bitty on shaky legs.

“What would you want me to call you?” Zimms asks, leaning in and knocking his forehead against Parse’s. “Like—honey? Baby?”

A flush forms high in Parse’s cheeks. “Sounds weirder coming from you,” he mumbles, looking away.

Zimms grins. “Oh, _baby_. Haha,” he chuckles, actually pronouncing the syllables, and Bitty bursts into laughter as Parse gives an amused eye-roll.

“You’re ridiculous,” Parse tells Zimms, snorting.

“You want me,” Zimms retorts, and Parse shivers—he’s still hard, Bitty notes, hard and leaking and he kind of wants to touch him but that’s Zimms’ job right now.

“Ye-ah.” Parse’s voice cracks on the word, and then Bitty watches as Zimms pushes Parse onto his back, slipping his hands behind Parse’s knees and pressing them upward. Parse wraps his fingers around his thighs so he can hold himself open, looking somehow more vulnerable than he had just a moment ago, and then Zimms sinks in on one long stroke that has both of them groaning incoherently. He starts thrusting slowly, picking up the rhythm from where Bitty and Parse had left off, and Bitty’s dick gives an interested twitch that he has to ignore, _God_.

“ _Fuck_ , Zimms,” Parse whines. “You’re so fucking—God, harder,” he says, and Zimms complies, slamming his hips in frantically. Parse is looking up at him with an expression akin to adoration, mouth slack in pleasure, and Bitty almost feels like this is something too intimate for him to be watching.

“Is this—hard enough?” Zimms pants.

“I—yeah, fuck, just like that, oh, _Ja_ —“

Zimms claps a swift hand over Parse’s mouth.

Bitty sits up a little straighter, blinking at them. What had just happened?

Quietly, Zimms says, “Not in front of him.”

“Shit, sorry,” Parse looks away, and then Zimms thrusts into him again and Parse groans.

And oh—that means—oh. It might’ve been Zimms’ real name? And if Parse knows his real name—God, they’re a lot closer than Bitty had thought, aren’t they?

Bitty’s so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost misses it when Zimms lets out a sharp cry and comes, hips stuttering against Parse’s ass. Parse has a hand between their bodies, stroking himself wildly, and it’s not long until his back arches and he comes too, with a loud, “ _Fuck_ , _oh!_ ” And God, Bitty knows these noises, remembers them from when he’d laid in bed side by side with Parse, connected only by their hands, and from that time in the shower weeks ago too. Now he can finally put an image with the memory, Parse’s shuddering body, the way his chest is heaving and the way he’s still looking up at Zimms’ face so, so intensely. It’s—oh. Bitty wants to see him like that again, wants to see them _both_ like this again, even though he doesn’t even know if that’s possible.

Eventually, Zimms rolls away from Parse, and Parse lets out a low groan and stretches out his back. “C’mon,” he murmurs to Bitty. “We can get cleaned up in here.”

Bitty doesn’t protest when Parse turns on the shower—he’s sweaty and sticky and wouldn’t mind washing the lube away, either. Zimms trades places with him when he’s done, hopping in while Bitty gets out, and Bitty wraps himself in a towel and leaves them alone in the shower for a while—they’re probably talking about what this means for their relationship, he figures. He doesn’t blame them; he’s not even sure at all where this is supposed to fit in—where _he_ fits in in their lives.

He slips his boxers back on and debates pulling on the rest of his clothes too, but Zimms might want them to stay the night—would he? Bitty has no idea. But when Parse and Zimms come out of the bathroom, stark naked and laughing about something, Parse flops down onto the bed and drags Bitty up so he’s lying next to them, and then Zimms crawls up on his other side and slips his arm over Bitty’s waist and—oh. Well. It looks like they’re cuddling, and Bitty can’t say he minds.

“How was that for training, eh?” Zimms mumbles after a long silence.

Bitty bursts into giggles, and he sees Parse reach over his body to flick Zimms in the head. “You’re ridiculous,” Parse mutters fondly, and Bitty nods in agreement—these _boys_.

Lord, what a night.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a warning, this chapter discusses a past minor character death!

Bitty’s head is swirling with thoughts all through training the next day—he goes through his practice sequences almost without thinking about them. For the first time since he’d lost himself in hands and mouths and bodies, Bitty lets himself think about earlier last night, when Parse had looked so hurt as Zimms had taken Bitty into his mouth. It’s just, Bitty still can’t understand _why_. Zimms had been talking about pretending to care about people for the sake of the job, but how did that relate to—oh.

Oh.

Maybe Parse thinks Zimms is pretending to like him? But—why? Zimms obviously cares a lot, Bitty thinks.

But—maybe it’s not enough.

Bitty mulls it over all through dinner with Parse and the other guys. He can tell Parse notices, but Bitty doesn’t really want to talk about it in public. Once they’ve tramped up to Parse’s room, though, Bitty lets his words go free. “Hey—were you okay, last night? When Zimms was, um—getting ready to blow me?”

Parse freezes, staring at him suspiciously. “Yeah, I was fine,” he says, waving a hand dismissively.

And oh, God. That has to be a lie.

Bitty thinks and thinks. He thinks of how Parse looked at Zimms all throughout last night, thinks of how Parse probably knows Zimms’ name and how Parse had looked so fucking sad for that split moment—and oh, _fuck_.

Parse is in love with Zimms.

The thought hits Bitty like a blow to the chest, and he has to work not to stagger from the force of it. He holds himself together long enough to climb onto the bed, and then he waits until Parse is sitting beside him before he looks at him and opens his mouth and says, “You said your thing with Zimms—you said it didn’t mean anything.”

“What are you talking about, Bits?” Parse laughs slightly, trying to blow it off.

Bitty takes a shallow breath, and then another. “Aren’t you in love with him?”

Parse looks away.

He doesn’t speak for a long moment, and Bitty can see his jaw working. “Sorry,” Bitty mumbles.

“It’s okay. I—fuck. Yeah? I am, but—it still doesn’t mean anything. He doesn’t love me, so.” Parse shrugs, but when he looks back at Bitty, sadness is overflowing from his eyes. Oh no, no, _Parse_ —Bitty leans forward to hug him, crushing his face into Parse’s hoodie, because God, Parse looks heartbroken and Bitty feels so, so bad for him—

But it’s getting harder to pay attention to that when Bitty’s own heart is starting to slowly but steadily tear itself into pieces.

Lord—he hadn’t known. He hadn’t known that Parse loved Zimms and he hadn’t known that it would feel so _painful_ to find that out, fuck—and why? Why does he hurt so much that he kind of wants to cry into Parse’s chest? He’s supposed to be comforting Parse, not the other way around. Instead he’s pressing his face into Parse’s neck and trying his best to keep his breathing steady, to hang on to a tentative sanity so that Parse won’t notice, _Lord_.

Desperately, he searches through the tight coil of feelings in his stomach, through thoughts about Parse and about Zimms and about both of them together—and God. He’s _jealous_. And that’s dumb, he’s not supposed to be jealous. Hell, they’ve let him have _sex_ with them. He should be _grateful_ for that, but—but.

He wants Parse to look at him the same way Parse had looked at Zimms last night.

Oh God.

That would mean Bitty’s falling in love with Parse, wouldn’t it?

Bitty’s falling in love with Parse.

He’s _let himself fall in love with Parse and he has no way to stop it_ —no, fuck— _why_? He can’t—it wouldn’t work at all, and oh _God_ , he’s starting to tremble because Parse loves Zimms and Zimms probably loves Parse back and Bitty doesn’t fit in _anywhere_.

“Bitty? What’s wrong?” Parse slides a hand soothingly up Bitty’s back, sounding a little alarmed.

And Bitty decides right then and there that he’s not going to tell him.

Bitty doesn’t want Parse to have to bear that burden, not when he’s in love with Zimms, not when Bitty already knows Parse has felt guilty for doing things with him—and, sure, neither of them have to feel guilty about the sexual side of things now, but actual _feelings_ are a whole different flavor of pie and it’s not fair to make Parse have to deal with that.

So he won’t say anything. It’ll be okay. He’s been unhappy and alone before; he can handle it now.

“I’m just—sad for you,” he tells Parse quietly, because that at least is true.

Parse chuckles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You don’t have to be sad for me, you know. I’m all right.”

Bitty leans back to look at him, biting his lip. Parse doesn’t _seem_ all right, not at all. He was doing an okay job of hiding it before, but now that Bitty knows how he really feels, it’s hard to miss the melancholy in his eyes.

Bitty’s heart jumps again. He wishes he could tell Parse that he loves him, and he wishes that Parse would be _happy_ to hear that—but all Bitty can imagine is a guilty _I’m sorry, I can’t_. And Bitty can’t blame him, either; Parse has been saying that from the beginning.

Bitty is just dumbly, stupidly in love with someone he can’t have.

And yeah, this has happened before, in high school with the senior running back on Coach’s football team, but Bitty had known from the get go that he’d never had a chance with him because he was straight. This—sitting in Parse’s arms, having kissed him and touched him and loved on him—all of this is so exquisitely worse than falling in love with a straight boy, because he _has_ Parse in all the ways except the one that really matters, God.

The sooner they stop talking about this, the easier it will be for Bitty to keep his feelings at bay. So he leans up and presses his mouth to Parse’s to divert his attention, so quickly that Parse lets out a surprised, “ _Mmph!_ ”

And then they’re kissing, and at least Bitty can kiss him whenever he wants to now, right? It’s not so bad that Parse doesn’t love him, not if he has this.

“Bitty—Bits. No—hang on,” Parse pulls away, panting slightly.

Bitty feels a flash of hurt seep into his bones. “Why not?” he blurts out.

“I wanna—I should explain some things,” Parse tells him, gaze serious.

“Oh, I—o-okay,” Bitty says, and then he looks away because hot shame is simmering in his stomach for kissing him then, when Parse wanted to confide in him—God, he’s an idiot.

“Bits. Hey. Don’t look so sad,” Parse takes his hand, squeezing gently. “I’ll kiss you in a minute, okay?”

Bitty’s face flames—he’s making this into a much bigger deal than it needs to be already, God. “You don’t— _have_ to.”

Parse frowns at him. “I want to,” he says, and then he leans forward and kisses Bitty’s temple.

And—oh. Parse still wants him.

Bitty feels a little lighter at that.

“Okay.” He forces a smile, pastes it on his lips until he’s sure it won’t rip away. “Um, what did you want to talk about?”

Parse sighs, and it’s a long moment before he speaks. Finally, he asks, “How did you know I loved him?”

“Ah—I, um. Well, you were lookin’ mighty sad when he was talking—about caring. I dunno. And you just looked real happy whenever he looked at you—just a gut feeling, I guess.” Bitty shrugs.

Parse closes his eyes and nods. “Thought so.”

“For what it’s worth—I think he cares about you a lot,” Bitty admits quietly.

Parse’s jaw hardens. He opens his eyes, looking pained, and says, “He’s a good actor, isn’t he?”

Bitty stares at him. “What?”

“I—fuck.” Parse leans his head back, blinking his eyes a couple of times. “I’m gonna start at the beginning, if that’s okay. None of this really makes sense otherwise.”

Mouth dry, Bitty nods. “I’m listening.”

“I know.” Parse gives him a soft smile, but it slowly fades as he sighs. “Okay, so—you might’ve caught it earlier when I almost fucked up and let his name slip.”

Bitty nods, flushing. “I didn’t catch what it was, though.”

“Probably for the best.” Parse nods, looking marginally relieved. “So the truth is—well. Zimms and I knew each other before we ever joined the Aces.”

Bitty’s eyebrows raise in surprise—that, he hadn’t guessed at all. “Really?”

“Yeah. Don’t spread that around, though. It’s not really something that should get out.”

“Okay,” Bitty agrees, still feeling slightly stunned. “Gosh. How did you meet, if ya don’t mind me asking?”

At that, Parse smiles. “We played hockey together in high school.”

“Oh!” Bitty’s eyes widen. “I didn’t know y’all skated—wow.”

Parse grins at him. “Yeah, it’s too bad there isn’t a rink around here, or we could go sometime. Anyway, we ended up—well, messing around. Sexually,” he admits. “It was—damn, I dunno. We had no idea what we were doing, but it was a lot of fun.”

Oh, God—Bitty just barely keeps his jaw from dropping open. They’ve been hooking up for a hell of a long time, haven’t they? Bitty feels like the world has just been turned on its side— _It doesn’t mean anything_ , Parse had said, and Bitty’d believed him. He’d had no idea how much history he was diving smack into the middle of. “So you guys—have you been together since then?”

Slowly, the smile drops off of Parse’s face. “No—not quite.” He sighs, and oh. There’s that, then. “Right after high school graduation, Zimms left to join the Aces, which I obviously had no clue about. He barely said anything about leaving at all—which stung like hell at the time, but now that I knew what he was doing I can see why he hid it from me.” Parse smiles ruefully.

“It’s still a little rude to just up and ditch you.” Bitty’s lips twist, because Parse seems sad about it. “I mean—if you guys were sorta together—I dunno. You must’ve missed him a lot.”

“It’s all right.” Parse chuckles. “Honestly, I’m not that bothered by it anymore. I’ve had a shit-ton of therapy working here, which helped a lot—oh fuck, you haven’t met our therapist yet, have you? Remind me to make you an appointment with her.”

“Um, okay.” Bitty blinks, taken aback.

“Anyway.” Parse shrugs, “He ended up apologizing. And—I dunno, he was actually really worried that I was angry about it.”

That’s a little better then—oh goodness, Bitty kind of feels bad now, for jumping to conclusions about how Zimms had acted. “So—you didn’t see him for a while?”

“It was only a couple months.” Parse’s brow furrows as he thinks. “And then—well. I’ve never told you why I joined the Aces, did I?” Bitty shakes his head. “Well—long story short, my dad got mixed in with some bad guys. It wasn’t his fault, but…” Parse shakes his head, looking away. “Anyway—he ended up being killed.”

Bitty sucks in a breath. “God, Parse, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs. “That’s—hell, that’s awful.”

“It’s—well, it’s not _okay_ , but I’m okay now.” Parse shrugs, giving a tight smile. “I came to terms with it a while ago. Anyway, when I first joined—I guess I wanted to find whoever was responsible for his death. Avenge him or some shit, I dunno. And then—well, I found Zimms,” he grimaces slightly.

“You don’t seem happy about that.” Bitty tilts his head, chest full of concern—Lord, _Parse_.

“I was mad at him for a while,” Parse admits wryly. “But we made up. And God—he’s my best friend, you know? We almost—well, we had a really big falling out at one point, and—I won’t tell you about that, cuz I don’t think he’d want you to know. But after that we ended up okay. His dad retired, and he got a little less uptight after we took some time off to train, and—” He shrugs. “At one point I told him that I wanted to be with him, but—he said no.”

Bitty nods, looking down at the bed. “He—I think he mentioned that to me earlier. He said he didn’t want to date you, right?”

“Yeah,” Parse sighs. “But then, well. A while later, we hooked up. It was kind of an accident, the first time, cuz we were pretty drunk. And I kinda—well, I came on to him really fucking strongly, because I was drunk and I wanted him and—I dunno. I think he kissed me. And then, you know.” He waves his hand in a vague gesture. “Anyway, after that—I asked him if he wanted to keep hooking up, and he said that we could, but that he still didn’t want to date me—which is—well. Understandable.”

Bitty squints at him. “What do you mean?”

Parse exhales through his nose. “The falling out we had—I found out some things. It was really bad—we both said some nasty shit. I don’t think he completely trusts himself around me, even though we forgave each other a long time ago, before we started hooking up.”

_Oh_ , Bitty thinks, suddenly remembering the lunchtime conversation from a couple of days ago, the one with Holster and Shitty and Ransom. Could Parse and Zimms’ falling out be related to that incident? When Bitty’d skirted around the topic with Zimms, Zimms had only mentioned his father, though, so—maybe not. Bitty can’t tell.

“So—why’d you say he was acting?” Bitty asks carefully, because the curiosity has been gnawing at his brain all throughout the conversation.

Parse snorts. “Cuz I’m an idiot, and I asked him to.”

Bitty blinks at him. “Um—what do you mean?”

“Right after we started hooking up—God, the first few times involved alcohol, and it was kind of a shit-show. I dunno. It helped me not think about stuff too much.” He looks slightly ashamed, and Bitty pats him on the arm in a way that he hopes is comforting. “Anyway, the last time we got really drunk, we fucked, and then we were lying there and Zimms turns to me and says something like, ‘we should try this sober, eh?’” Parse’s voice twists downwards in an imitation of Zimms’ lilt, and Bitty chuckles nervously. “And hell—I didn’t even know how to react to that. See, when he drinks, he kind of just lets go of all of his inhibitions—he would hold me and kiss me and shit, and I was just really, really scared of losing that.” He sighs roughly. “So I said something like—I can’t even remember. It was stupid, something like, ‘only if you keep pretending you care about me,’ I guess.”

His eyes look haunted. God, _Parse_.

Bitty lets out a worried whimper, leaning forward and sliding his arms around Parse’s waist. “Oh, honey,” he murmurs.

Parse slips his arms around Bitty, laughing quietly. “It’s all right. He gave me a weird look and said ‘ _Okay, Parse_ ’, and then we fell asleep, and—well. It’s been—hell, it’s been really good. I wasn’t sure if he’d even remember the conversation, but the next time we fucked we hadn’t been drinking and he still held me afterwards, so—I assume he’d heard me. Anyway, I don’t really—care? I dunno if that’s fucked up or not, but I really—I love him. Sometimes I can pretend he cares too, and that’s all I’m gonna get, I guess. But I dunno what he was thinking when he brought it up last night. That hurt a lot, I’m not gonna lie.”

Bitty sits up, looking directly into his eyes. “Parse?”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t know what he was thinking last night, but—that boy is not acting.”

Parse stares at him. “Uh—what?”

“I dunno if he’s in love with you, but he cares about you somethin’ fierce,” Bitty says firmly. “Trust me. He cares.”

“I—“ Parse’s voice sounds choked. He shakes his head. “I don’t know if I can believe that.”

“I think he goes through a whole lot of trouble not to make you sad,” Bitty shrugs. “He might not even have been thinking about you when he was talking about pretending last night—I dunno. I couldn’t tell there was subtext or anything ‘til you tensed up, and I really don’t think he would’ve said it on purpose.”

Parse’s face contorts. “How do you know?”

“Honestly? I’m not completely certain,” Bitty admits. “But—well. He let you kiss me, which I think says something—I think he thinks it, um. Makes you happy,” he mumbles, flushing.

“It does,” Parse murmurs, sliding a hand up Bitty’s arm. “Huh.”

And God—Bitty gets it, gets why Parse had asked him to act in the first place. Parse is sleeping with Zimms because he loves him, even though Zimms might not even love him back, and—Bitty’s doing the exact same thing with Parse, isn’t he? Hell, it’s actually _worse_ , because Parse loves Zimms over everything else—Bitty has even less of a chance of having his love returned. Lord, the futility of it rings in his skull, sending a tangle of distress to dance in his chest.

He leans forward and hugs Parse again. _I love you_ , he thinks, and—God. It’s really true.

It doesn’t hurt as much to think the words as he’d thought it would.

And Bitty knows that despite his better judgement, he’s going to take whatever Parse and Zimms will give him, even if Parse and Zimms end up leaving him to be with each other. Being wrapped up warm in Parse’s arms—and he’s not gonna lie, Zimms’ arms too—it feels so nice, too good for him to even think of stopping.

“Thanks for listening,” Parse mumbles into his ear. “I—fuck, I really wanna know now—about if you’re right or not.”

Bitty laughs softly, in a way that might have come out bitter if he hadn’t forced the sourness from his mouth. “You’ll have to ask him yourself—I ain’t doing it.”

He doesn’t think he could bear hearing the words from Zimms’ mouth.

Parse snorts. “I dunno if I’m brave enough… Maybe. I’ll—I’ll try.”

“Okay.” Bitty nods, trying as hard as he can not to sound shaky. There’s a chance—and he has no idea how strong it is—but there’s a chance that if Parse talks to Zimms, then they might end up dating by the end of it. They might leave him behind, and there’s really nothing he can do to stop it, even though it really fucking hurts to even consider. He could tell Parse not to talk to Zimms, he supposes, but that would be shitty of him, and—

And he wants Parse to be happy.

Slowly, Parse slides a hand into Bitty’s hair, and Bitty tilts his head up and looks at him for a moment, at the current green of his eyes and the smattering of freckles on his nose. Parse gives him a little half smile, as if he’s laughing at something, and Bitty can’t help smiling back—God, he’s _so_ gone.

“I’m gonna kiss you now,” Parse tells him, and Bitty chuckles.

“I’d sure hope so.”

And then Parse leans forward and ever-so gently presses his lips to Bitty’s, close-mouthed, and Bitty’s breath hitches. It feels tender in a way that wants to break him apart, his heart beating violently in his chest, blood rushing beneath his fingertips as he slides his hands up Parse’s back to try and deepen the kiss—but Parse holds him back, and Bitty can feel the huff of Parse’s laughter on his lips.

Parse takes his time as he destroys him with tenderness, slanting their lips together, skating light touches up and down Bitty’s arms— _God,_ it’s perfect and lovely and Bitty almost wonders if Parse has guessed at how Bitty feels, if he’s somehow mocking him for it. But then Parse pulls back and looks at him, smile soft, and gives a breathy laugh—and Bitty is _so_ charmed, Lord. Bitty tilts his head and presses a light kiss to Parse’s jaw, stubble prickly under his lips, and then he kisses lower, down the line of Parse’s neck, keeping his touches gentle.

Last night had been desperate, frenzied, almost. There’s nothing rushed at all about this, about the way that Parse groans when Bitty pulls his collar aside and sucks at his clavicle, about the way that Bitty can’t stop whimpering when Parse pulls him up and starts kissing him again, licking into his mouth with short flicks of his tongue. If last night had been a demolition, this is more like the dismantling of an elaborate stage set, the same amount of destruction broken into smaller pieces in a way that only serves to draw it out, to make it deliciously worse.

When Parse finally, finally slides his hand up Bitty’s shirt, Bitty starts trembling with the force of his desire—he wants so much, oh God. Parse smirks playfully, pulling Bitty’s shirt off and over his head and removing his own almost as an afterthought—and then he’s laying Bitty down and climbing over him, pressing their naked chests together and kissing him in a bloom of warmth that makes Bitty groan.

“Parse,” Bitty sighs, “Parse.”

“Wanna touch you,” Parse mumbles, dipping his head down to suck at Bitty’s neck. “Wanna be—fuck, I wanna be inside you, I—God. I know you don’t want, like, full penetration yet…” He lifts his head up, staring straight into Bitty’s soul. “But can I finger you?”

Bitty shudders. “Lord, yes,” he drawls, and Parse fixes him with a bright smile and twists his arm down to fumble with the drawstring of Bitty’s shorts.

It’s less scary the second time around, Bitty thinks, as Parse shucks both of their clothes and starts fumbling with the lube. Bitty hops over to the sink and cleans himself off, and then he lies down and Parse climbs between his legs, eyes the darkest Bitty’s seen them. This time Bitty has Parse’s attention, all of it, as Parse presses Bitty’s legs up and apart, pausing to stroke at Bitty’s cock with a lube-slick hand—it’s achingly slow, almost so slow that it hurts, and Bitty lets out a garbled moan.

Then Parse trails his hand back, brushing his fingers past Bitty’s balls and down to his entrance, circling gently with the pad of his finger. “Want it?” Parse arches a brow at him, and Bitty flushes and nods—somehow this is more embarrassing than it’d been last night with Zimms, because last night he hadn’t been so spread open, hadn’t had to watch Parse lick his lips and slowly twist his finger into him, the intrusion still strange but not as unexpected as before. “You’re so—shit, you’re so fucking sexy, Bits,” Parse groans, alternating between staring up at Bitty’s face and down at where his finger is sliding slowly and steadily in and out of Bitty’s asshole. “Someday I wanna eat you out—fuck. I bet Zimms would love to see that—“

“ _Nngh!_ ” Bitty whimpers, because what the _hell_ , people should not be allowed to be as sexy as Parse is being right now—he wants to _eat him out, God_.

“You like that?” Parse smirks. “Want my tongue in you?”

Bitty lets out a tortured whimper, voice cracking on a “ _Ye-es_ ,” because he’s not sure if Parse means _now_ or theoretically—but then Parse leans down and kisses the crease of Bitty’s thigh, sucks at it in a way that makes him jump, and—“Oh _God, Pa-arse_ ,” Bitty moans, because that’s most definitely Parse’s tongue, sliding hot and wet toward where his finger is pressed in knuckle-deep, _oh God_.

Parse rasps his tongue around where his finger’s slipping in and out of Bitty’s hole, Bitty sobbing the entire time, and at one point Parse grins up at him and says, “It’s a good thing the walls here are fairly soundproof.”

“ _Shush_ ,” Bitty says, groaning and flinging his arm over his face in an effort to hide his flush. “You were louder’n I’m being last night, mister.”

“Sure.” Parse snorts, and then he leans down and licks at him again, tongue dancing delicately over Bitty’s skin.

And then Parse shifts his finger, pulls it out, and Bitty can’t tell what he’s doing at first but then he feels Parse’s tongue pressing at him, _into_ him, and—“Fuck, honey, oh God, that’s so— _fuck_ ,” he cries, clenching at the sheets, his chest heaving. Parse gives a pleased hum that Bitty can _feel_ , God, and then he presses further, so far that Bitty can feel his stubble rubbing against the skin of his ass.

All at once Parse pulls away, his mouth slick with saliva, and presses that finger back in again—but _oh_ , it feels bigger because now there are _two_ , and Bitty gasps and forces his muscles to relax as Parse fucks in and out. “Okay?” Parse asks him, voice husky.

“Yes,” Bitty rasps, hips thrusting upwards as Parse grazes his prostate, “ _Yes_ — _oh!_ ”

“Gonna add another,” Parse says, and Bitty nods helplessly, groaning as he does it—God, he’s so full. But now that he’s so full, he can’t help thinking about what it would be like to have Parse’s dick inside him—fuck, having Parse on top of him, pressing inside him instead of the other way around, _God_ —

“I—I want you,” Bitty gasps.

Parse’s eyes widen. “Oh?”

“I want you—please, fuck me?” Bitty squirms against Parse’s fingers.

“Really?” Parse’s mouth hangs open, and Bitty nods desperately. “Shit, okay,” he says, huffing a laugh. His face breaks into a grin. “You feel pretty relaxed—do you need more?” he asks, gently wriggling his fingers.

“No, I—“ Bitty looks away, embarrassed, and whimpers, “Now, please?”

“God, all right.” Parse slowly pulls his hand away, and Bitty feels so _empty_ , fuck. “Want me to brush my teeth before I kiss you?” Parse questions, rummaging in the side drawer for a condom.

“Um.” Bitty flushes and nods, heart stuttering wildly. “If that’s okay?”

“Sure.” Parse laughs, clambering off of the bed. “Zimms always makes me do that too. It’s not a big deal—and I really wanna kiss you, so.”

Bitty moans at that, as he watches Parse walk over to brush his teeth—he wonders if Parse even realizes how good the things he says are making Bitty feel. “Hurry up, then,” he says, as Parse spits and turns the tap off.

“Who’s impatient now?” Parse grins at him, wiping his mouth off and crawling back onto the bed. Then he kisses Bitty, tasting of toothpaste, and manages somehow to roll a condom onto his own cock between kisses, carefully slicking himself with more lube than Bitty would’ve thought necessary. “Don’t wanna hurt you,” Parse mumbles into Bitty’s cheek, and then he nudges Bitty’s legs upwards and out of the way again.

Bitty holds himself open and stares at Parse’s face, watches it contort as Parse positions himself and starts pushing in—and oh, God, he’s so big—“You’re so _big_ , _God_ ,” Bitty gasps out, squeezing his eyes shut, because just then the head of Parse’s cock pops in. “Nngh, fuck!”

“Need me to pull back out?” Parse presses a tender kiss to his chest.

“No, just—gotta adjust.” Bitty bites his lip. It doesn’t _hurt_ , per se, but it’s stretching him in a way that’s not entirely comfortable, in a way that means he’s most definitely going to be sore in the morning.

“Of course,” Parse says, and then he shivers. “God, you feel so fucking good, Bits—I can’t believe I’m inside you, fuck, I’ve been thinking about this since we started showering together—“

“Really?” Bitty asks, voice breathy.

“Uh, yeah.” Parse grins bashfully. “Sorry—I wanted you a lot, but—I couldn’t. And—it would’ve been weird then, anyway.”

“Mm,” Bitty agrees, and then he can’t find the words to say anything more because he’s so overwhelmed by this all, God.

“Hey—touch yourself?” Parse asks, and Bitty nods and reaches down to stroke himself—he’s still hard, but it still takes a moment to ratchet his arousal up, and then—“Can I move?” Parse grits out, and Bitty nods, hand moving as quickly on himself as he can manage at this angle.

And then Parse presses in, in, slow enough that Bitty’s eyes roll back into his head—“ _God_ ,” he shudders, hand momentarily stilling as he grows used to the feeling of Parse inside him—oh fuck, and Parse’s hips are pressing flush to Bitty’s ass, fuck, he’s all the way in and Bitty feels so fucking _tight_ around him—“ _Parse_ ,” he hisses, resuming his hand movements, and he can feel every pulse of his heartbeat right where Parse is pressed thick inside of him, Lord.

“Okay?” Parse gasps out, arms trembling as he holds himself up.

“Um—yeah, it’s—God. You can um, fuck me now,” Bitty whispers, and Parse leans up and kisses him and starts to move, rolling his hips in an almost continuous motion, slipping in and out of Bitty so, so slowly—“ _God_ ,” Bitty sobs.

“Do you like it slow like this?” Parse asks him, and Bitty gives a tense little nod. “Good—fuck, I want you to come with me inside you. Wanna feel it,” Parse nearly growls, and Bitty shudders and wraps an arm around Parse’s shoulders and holds on tight.

“I—hell, that’s— _oh_ ,” Bitty sighs brokenly as Parse fucks into him again, again.

“Yeah?” Parse smirks. “You feel so good, babe. Can you come like this?”

Bitty shivers. “I—yes. I might be, um—getting c-close,” he admits, swiping his thumb over the head of his cock and spreading the slickness of his pre-come around.

“Good,” Parse purrs, leaning down and sucking at Bitty’s collarbone, his neck, his jaw, finally reaching Bitty’s lips and giving him a kiss that’s dangerously tender, one that makes him want to sob with how lovely it feels.

Bitty wonders if this is what making love feels like. He wonders if he’ll ever really know, but this is as close as he’s going to get any time soon, he guesses. And that—that’s okay. He’d rather have this with Parse than anyone else, Parse gazing warmly into his eyes as he fills Bitty over and over again, Parse babbling things like _God, babe, you’re so tight_ and _you’re really fucking gorgeous, you know?_ It’s messy and intimate and ultimately endearing—Bitty thinks he could probably get off on Parse’s dirty talking alone, for all the emotions it’s stirring up in his chest.

His orgasm builds slowly, slow enough that he can take pleasure in the way Parse moans as Bitty starts clenching, the way Parse deliberately slows so Bitty can feel every inch of his cock as he starts shuddering. And then the pleasure is too hard to bear, and—“I—I, oh God, _Parse_ ,” Bitty cries as he comes, feeling his hand grow slick as he spurts between them, hips bucking of their own accord.

“Can I—fuck you harder?” Parse asks, then, “I’m close, Bits, oh _fuck._ ”

“Yes—yes,” Bitty whimpers, grasping at Parse’s hips, and one of his hands is messy but Parse doesn’t seem to care, just fucks into him harder, faster, filling the room with the obscene sounds of their skin slapping together. Bitty clutches him closer and then sobs, because the new angle has Parse pressing against his prostate and he’s so _sensitive_ , God—he can’t help clenching around Parse, and that’s when Parse comes, choking out an _oh, fu-uck_ and aiming a sloppy kiss at Bitty’s lips as he shudders through it.

Parse comes down from his orgasm slowly, resting his forehead against Bitty’s, and Bitty feels almost dizzy with the closeness as he focuses on catching his breath. Then Parse carefully pulls out, stumbling out of bed to discard the condom before flopping down next to Bitty. Bitty immediately curls into him, wincing at the twinge of discomfort in his ass at having moved—that’s going to be uncomfortable in the morning, he can tell already. Oh God, Zimms is gonna notice his soreness tomorrow—there’s no way he’s going to be able to spar without letting on that he’s moving funny.

Parse puts his arm around Bitty, stroking his back. “Whatcha thinking about?”

“I—Zimms is gonna notice that I’m sore, isn’t he?” Bitty worries at his lip.

“Ah, shit—yeah, probably.” Parse sighs. “I should talk to him.”

“Did you guys talk last night?” Bitty wonders, because they _had_ been alone in the shower for a while.

“A little?” Parse’s lips quirk. “I dunno—we’re not very good at the whole talking thing. I said that it was good and he agreed and then—uh, we made out a little?”

Bitty snorts. “You boys…” He shakes his head, resting his hand on Parse’s hip—and ew, there’s dried come there. He wrinkles his nose. “Gross.”

 “What—oh. Hah.” Parse snorts, looking down. “To be fair, you put it there.”

“Shush.” Bitty pokes him. They get up to clean off, and Bitty is silent for a long moment as they both tug their boxers on. “I’m gonna have to tell Zimms, aren’t I?”

“I could, uh—talk to him tomorrow morning?” Parse offers, crawling back into bed. Bitty follows him, considering it.

“Only if you want to,” he says carefully, because—well, that would take a lot of pressure off of him tomorrow, but he would understand if Parse was reluctant to do it.

“You’re worrying, aren’t you?” Parse presses his face into Bitty’s neck. “I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.” Bitty smiles softly.

“Only cuz you’re stupid great,” Parse tells him, pulling back with a dopey grin. “And cute. And good at sex.”

Bitty flushes brightly. “ _Parse!_ ” He laughs, and God, Parse is flirting with him again—but this, at least, he’s familiar with. It doesn’t have to mean anything—it’s just Parse being Parse.

“It’s true.” Parse pouts, and Bitty giggles and kisses him on the nose, carefully taking this moment and wrapping it tightly in his memory so he’ll never have to let it go.

xXx

Kent slides out of bed carefully so he doesn’t wake Bitty, flitting around as quietly can in the dark of his room as he gets dressed. Then he tiptoes out the door and climbs two flights of stairs to reach Jack’s floor, rapping lightly at the door to his room.

Jack opens it moments later, wrapped in a towel and looking far more awake than should be allowed at four in the morning. “Hi?” he asks, arching a brow.

“Hey,” Kent says, clearing his throat nervously. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Kent follows him to the bedroom and perches on the edge of the bed. “I’ll wait for you to get dressed,” he murmurs.

“Oh? That’s a first. Must be serious.” Jack gives him a shit-eating grin.

Kent rolls his eyes, feeling a little lighter already. “Damn, Jack, I don’t _always_ want you naked.”

“Last few weeks say otherwise,” Jack says with a snort, pulling open a drawer and rummaging around for a pair of boxers.

Kent waves a hand at him, laughing. “Put your clothes on.”

Jack throws on a t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts, finally sitting on the bed next to Kent and leveling a smirk at him. “So. Bitty, eh?”

Fuck—Jack doesn’t know, can’t know what they’d done last night, and Kent doesn’t even know if it’d been _wrong_ or not, but—still. Kent takes a deep breath and says, “I fucked him last night.”

The smirk drops off of Jack’s face— _shit_. “Oh.”

Kent has the immediate instinct to say _I’m sorry_ , but he holds his tongue.

Jack tries to speak, and his breath hitches. He tries again. “I—I did tell you that you could.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. He honestly doesn’t think he would’ve done slept with Bitty otherwise.

Jack hangs his head. “But I’m still really jealous.”

Kent nods, biting his lip. He doesn’t quite know what to say.

“I shouldn’t be,” Jack continues, “But I am. And—I dunno. That’s the only time it’s happened, right?”

“Well,” Kent looks away, and he can practically feel Jack tensing for the blow. He’d _meant_ to tell him earlier—God. “We, um. Like the time in the shower? That happened again—a few nights ago. Not in the shower, just—in bed, I guess.”

Jack exhales harshly. “Fuck,” he mumbles.

“I know.” Kent sighs. And then he does say, “I’m sorry,” even though technically he doesn’t have much to apologize for—just for keeping it from him, he supposes.

“God—I should be okay with that.” Jack shakes his head, “But I’m not—not all the way. Sorry. It’s—hard.”

Kent crosses his arms around himself. “Hey—you’re not mad at him, though, right? I should’ve—I dunno. Fuck. I really wanted it, I’m not gonna lie.”

“I know,” Jack says, “I know. I—I know how it feels to want him, but.”

A thought occurs to Kent, and his stomach flips. “Jack?”

“Hm?”

“Are you jealous of him, or—jealous of me?”

Jack starts, sitting up and staring at him. “Hi—“ he tries to blurt out, but he cuts himself off, looking away. “I—don’t know, entirely.”

_Fuck_. Kent looks at the floor, wounded, because—God, Bitty’s great. And Kent likes him—likes him a whole fucking lot, honestly—and he’d been elated that Jack seems to like him too. But what if Jack likes him _too much_? Kent can’t see Bitty like, stealing Jack from him or something, but if Jack starts to like Bitty more than he likes Kent—shit. Kent doesn’t know if he could deal with that, with them cutting him out—

“Kent,” Jack says quietly.

Kent looks up, breaking away from his spiral of thoughts. “Huh?”

“I just mean—I would’ve liked to be there,” Jack says carefully.

“Oh.” Kent swallows, nodding, but there’s still a violent uneasiness sitting in his chest. He’d wanted Jack there too—God, he’s fucking _in love_ with Jack, but last night all he could think of had been Bitty, Bitty warm and smiling and so, so gorgeous beneath him. “Jack,” he says suddenly, and before he can take it back he adds, “Do you remember—the last time we got really drunk?”

Jack blinks at the change in subject but nods. “Yeah. I let you fuck me.”

Kent flushes—he’d forgotten about that until just now. “That was, um—yeah.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “I meant—after that. When we were talking, and you said we should we should try it sober, and I said—only if you pretended you cared about me.”

Jack hums, thinking about it. “Ah—yeah, I remember.” He gives Kent a strange look. “I thought you were joking.”

“Uh,” Kent says, letting out a nervous laugh, “I—wasn’t?”

“Oh,” Jack blinks. “Is that what you think I’ve been doing?”

Kent flops backwards on the bed, face going hot. “Maybe?”

“I haven’t. Been doing that, I mean,” Jack tells him, lying back beside him, and now they’re both awkwardly staring up at the ceiling.

“Last night,” Kent says after a moment, “You were talking about pretending. And I thought—I thought you were referencing that.”

“God, no.” Jack shakes his head. “Sorry—I didn’t even think about that. I—did I worry you?”

“A little,” Kent admits, turning his head to look at him. Jack’s eyes are soft as he looks back, and Kent has the overwhelming urge to hold his hand—and this had never happened, before Bitty had arrived. He’d been able to curb his impulses before, the impulses to touch Jack whenever possible, but now it seems he barely has any barriers left.

But what could it hurt? If Jack hadn’t—been pretending, fuck, then maybe Jack won’t mind—so Kent does it, reaches over and intertwines Jack’s fingers with his. It feels just as nice as he’d thought it would, Jack’s skin warm and rough against his.

And then—“I do care about you, you know,” Jack nearly whispers.

Kent feels a wash of frantic emotion flow through his limbs. “I—shit.” He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. He hadn’t _known_ —fuck, Jack cares, he _cares_ — _God_. “Jack—you know you’re still my favorite, right?”

Jack eyes him, his vulnerability shining through in the set of his lips. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yeah,” Kent says, and he’s telling the truth. “Bitty is—I like him a lot. You know that. But you’re—God, Jack, I’m in love with you,” he whispers, feeling desperate. It’s not the first time he’s revealed his feeling, but—it’s the first time he’s thought that Jack has a chance at believing him.

“You always say that,” Jack averts his eyes.

Kent’s heart clenches. “That doesn’t make it any less true.”

“I guess you’re right,” Jack replies after a long moment, and the weight on Kent’s heart lessens.

Jack doesn’t resist when Kent leans in to kiss him, mouth pliant but firm as Kent tugs at his lip. He pulls away after a moment, fondness in his eyes as he looks at Kent. “I’m gonna be late meeting Bitty, you know.”

“You should go, I guess,” Kent says, not bothering to hide his reluctance.

Jack chuckles at him. “You don’t want me to?”

“I wanna make out.” Kent raises an eyebrow. He wants to cuddle too, maybe, but he’s not going to say that. “I know that you’re always punctual and all that, though, so get your ass outta here before I jump you.”

Jack laughs. “You just got laid last night.”

“So?”

“Fair,” Jack concedes. “Um—hey. If you decide to sleep with him again—I won’t mind that.”

“You’ve said that like, every time,” Kent points out.

“I know, I’m just—I keep expecting not to get jealous.” Jack sighs. “So this time, I’m just going to expect the jealousy, and then it won’t be so bad, eh?”

Kent’s mouth twists. “That doesn’t sound like ‘not minding.’”

Jack lets out a short breath. “In all seriousness—I think I’m okay, now that I know about it. As long as—well, I mean, you can do whatever you want, but—I’d still like it if you kept hooking up with me?” he says, his cheeks going pink. “Um, him too, if you both want.”

Kent laughs sharply. “Jack—you do realize I’m going to sleep with you until you finally tell me you don’t want to anymore, right?”

 “Who says I’m going to do that?” Jack asks, frowning.

Arching a brow, Kent thunks his forehead against Jack’s. “Well, we’re not dating, are we?”

Jack holds his stare. “What if—what if I rethought that? Not—now, but. In the future. I—I dunno.”

Kent gives him a shaky smile—“ _Jack_ ,” he breathes.

“It’s not—a promise, but.” Jack swallows, readjusting his hand where it’s connected to Kent’s. “I’m happy, with you.”

“Jack—aww, fuck.” Kent grins, trying to deflect his slight embarrassment from how fucking _ecstatic_ he feels—God, _Jack_. The happiness spills from his chest, all the way down to his toes, and he lets out a little laugh as he closes the gap between their mouths, kissing Jack once, twice, before pulling back to look at him. “You make me happy, too.”

xXx

Jack steps into the lobby one minute late, but that ends up being fine anyway because Bitty doesn’t stumble blearily out of the elevator until two minutes later. Jack hands him the disposable coffee cup that he’d been holding, one out of a multipack that he’d picked up on his last grocery run—it’s oddly satisfying to watch Bitty slowly perk up throughout the first hour of the morning, and just as satisfying to finally have figured out how Bitty takes his coffee through trial and error—one cream and two sugars, apparently.

“Thanks,” Bitty mumbles, and then he looks properly at Jack and a flush spreads across his face—so he knows that Kent and Jack had talked them sleeping together, then.

Well—Jack might as well have some fun with it. So as they start walking toward the training facility, he watches out of the corner of his eye to see if Bitty’s limping at all—and of course, he could be presuming things, because though Kent had said he’d fucked Bitty, that doesn’t necessarily imply penetration. But no, Bitty is in fact walking with a barely perceptible limp, and Jack smirks at that. “Sore?”

Bitty’s face blazes, and he covers his face with one hand as he walks, groaning. “Yes,” he admits.

Jack chuckles. “Was he any good?”

Bitty giggles nervously. “Oh my _God_ ,” he says, looking around, and when it’s obvious that there’s no one else in the area (Jack knows there isn’t. He’d checked), Bitty averts his eyes and says, “Um—yes.”

Jack’s grin grows wider. “Did he do that thing with his fingers where—“

“Oh my God, _Zimms_!” Bitty cries, covering his face.

“What? It’s not like we haven’t—been intimate,” Jack phrases carefully.

“Yeah, but—I mean. You’re asking for deets!” Bitty quietly exclaims.

Jack shrugs. Normally he doesn’t participate when he hears other people talking about their sex lives, but—it’s a little different in this instance, because he’s slept with both of them and it doesn’t feel awkward at all to be discussing it. “Does that bother you?”

Bitty swallows. “I—well, um. Not really?”

Grinning again, Jack winks. “Good.”

“Ugh, you really wanna know this stuff though?” Bitty makes a little moan of embarrassment.

“Hmm—it’s fun to imagine.” Jack’s lips quirk.

And, okay—he’s kind of horny, because he’d been kissing Kent and it’d felt really, really good, and—nothing’s going to happen right now obviously, since they’re walking to work, but talking dirty with Bitty while no one else is there isn’t the worst thing that Jack could be doing.

Bitty bites his lip. “He, um. Ate me out.”

Jack is very, very thankful that no one is around as they approach the training center doors because he lets out a little groan, one that’s easily audible, and grows very, very warm. “That—I bet that was good.”

“It—I’d never thought about it? Like, I knew of it, but I didn’t know I wanted him to do it to me until he mentioned it, and…” Bitty trails off, face permanently pink at this point.

Jack swallows thickly as he opens the door, the air conditioning whooshing into his face. He’s still too hot. “He likes it a lot. I dunno why, but—he’s good at it.”

Bitty nods, eyes going half-lidded. “I—um. He was inside of me like that,” he drops his voice to a whisper. “And it was just—so damn intimate, gosh.”

“Yeah.” Jack hums in agreement, and then he has to avert his eyes, because _oh, God_. If this goes any farther then he’s going to be too turned on to really think properly, and that’s not really conducive to the training environment so he changes the subject. “Hey—since you’re sore, would you rather start doing some sims instead?”

Bitty blinks at him. “Sims?”

“Did Parse not show you the sim room?” Jack squints back.

“Um… no,” Bitty says after thinking for a moment. “At least, I don’t remember anything like that.”

Jack rolls his eyes lightly. He’s not angry, but still, Parse could’ve done a better job at getting Bitty acquainted to the building. “Did he even give you the official tour?”

Bitty cocks his head. “I mean, he did show me around? We went and saw all of the people that live on our floor. And Lardo, and the knife room. Is that not the official one?”

“That would explain it.” Jack huffs a laugh. “Nope. That’s not it at all. Here,” he says, striding over to an unassuming cabinet that sits in the front area. He pulls out a pair of small mp3 players, already attached to earbuds, and hands one of them to Bitty. “Put these in. I’m gonna tour you today. We’ll probably skip some of it for time’s sake, but I want to make sure you know where you’re going.”

“Oh—all right.” Bitty blinks up at him, putting the earbuds in.

Jack shows Bitty how to start the tour guide recording, and then they set out to trace a path that he knows well, even though he hasn’t walked it in over a year. This is one of the few paths that everyone keeps constant for the sake of new recruits, and it’s one that Jack used to wander along a long, long time ago, holding on shyly to his father’s hand back when he’d been small.

Bitty knows a lot of the combat related rooms, which Jack is thankful for because that means he can talk over the recording with more necessary info. Bitty takes one earphone out and listens avidly, and Jack realizes he’s enjoying himself—hell, he doesn’t remember the last time he’d really been happy doing something work-related.

Toward the end of the tour, Bitty looks around and says, “I’ve never been down this way before.”

“It’s mostly just the sim room,” Jack says, taking both of his earbuds out and mentioning for Bitty to turn off his own recording. They’re at the back of the building, facing the one long, opaque barrier, lined all up and down with doors at different intervals. “Oh, and that room down there is where our therapist has our appointments. If you haven’t been around here before, you should probably go sign up.”

Bitty nods, following Jack over to the last door on the aisle. There’s a sign-up sheet and a worn down pencil taped to the door, and Jack watches as Bitty eyes the previous names before penning his own codename in neat handwriting. Jack takes the opportunity to scrawl his own name down in the next available slot—there’s no doubt he should’ve done it sooner, what with all of his feelings about Kent nowadays, but at least now he doesn’t have to worry about it any longer.

He takes Bitty down the hallway, stopping and squinting at one of the doors. Bitty almost runs into him, mumbling a “Sorry!” as he eyes the door with an apprehensive expression, and with good reason—it’s displaying a bright, red screen that says “KEEP OUT: SIMULATIONS IN PROGRESS,” and then in smaller letters, “Please reserve your timeslot at a scheduling kiosk.”

All of the other doors have screens, but most of them are either asleep or showing a vacancy message. “This one’s buggy, I think.” Jack sighs. “I don’t know of anyone who gets up this early to do sims, and it’s been like this for a couple of days—I’m gonna have to go grumble at the coders. Used to be Parse’s job until I demoted him.”

And yeah, he really regrets the whole demotion thing, and not just because he has to pick up Kent’s chores. It’d been a hasty decision, done in the heat of the moment, and he honestly wishes he could take it back because not having Kent around means Jack can’t really go on missions either. They’re functionally partners, after all—just because Jack _can_ go out doesn’t mean he wants to. He would’ve reverted the decision immediately once he’d realized the ramifications, except that he’d already told the Heads about it and they’d given him the whole ‘ _we respect your decision_ ’ dialogue that basically means he’ll be eyed with suspicion if he changes his mind.

“Coders?” Bitty pipes up. “Like Chowder and Dex and Farmer? Parse and I have eaten lunch with them before.”

“Similar, but those three are in our department. Their specialties are mostly mission related. We have a whole separate group of people—I think it’s all dudes right now, actually—who run the coding for the simulations. They’re always pissed off about something.” Jack wrinkles his nose.

“Sounds—unsavory,” Bitty snorts.

“Yep. They don’t like dealing with the combat group at all, even though proper feedback is really necessary for effective training. We’ve got a guy, Whiskey, who can talk to them like no one I’ve ever met, though, so I might see if he wants to do this instead,” Jack muses. It’s really about time to stop leaving Kent with his old rookie chores, anyway. “I can never remember their names. For some reason, three of them picked the code name _Chad_ and then a number, and it’s not a huge problem because none of them really go out on missions—but it’s still pretty annoying, eh?”

Bitty’s smiling at him, looking faintly surprised. “Sounds kinda silly if you ask me. You know—you’ve got a lot to say this morning,” he observes, smile softening.

Jack flushes. “Just—making small talk?” He makes to turn away, but Bitty stops him.

“No, no, that’s fine! I like talking with you.” Bitty gives him a small grin, and Jack’s heart feels like it’s expanding inside his ribcage with the brightness of Bitty’s expression.

Jack smiles back. “Ah—thanks. Um. Anyway. This is one of the sim room kiosks,” he walks over to a small station across from the door. “You can use it to schedule your time, check who’s already scheduled, all that kind of stuff. So.” He taps at the screen, scrolling through until he finds a nearby room number, “We’d click room number five, then input our code names and what kind of simulation we want.” He does so quickly, fingers flying over the touch screen, and then presses _Schedule_. A room number pops up, along with the current time. “And there we are. It’s early in the morning, so pretty much no one’s reserved rooms yet, but keep in mind that you’ll need to schedule midday sessions a couple of days ahead of time.”

“Got it!” Bitty nods at him, sipping his coffee. “Should we go in?” He inclines his head at the door with the matching number, one whose screen has flashed on to “ _Pending Occupants_.”

“Finish that first.” Jack nods at his coffee cup, tilting his head toward a nearby bench. “They get fussy about bringing food into the sim rooms.”

They sit, and it’s peaceful for a few moments. Jack looks around at the way the rising sun casts its rays through the glass around them, spawning myriads of rainbows that will be gone by the time most of the other agents head to training.

And then Bitty looks up at him and says, “So—Parse mentioned at one point that you were, um. Jealous. I—I mean, are you?” he asks quietly, the words quavering like a hummingbird’s wings in the air.

Jack thinks about it for a moment. “Maybe—a little,” he admits. “I—you know what? Honestly, not really anymore. It feels like I _should_ be jealous, but.” He shrugs. “It’s hard to be jealous when I’ve—you know. With both of you.”

Bitty’s cheeks go red at that. “So if we were to, um. Do it again?”

Jack barely keeps a groan from escaping his lips. Instead he puts on as light of a smirk as he can manage and says, “Oh? You want me?”

Bitty splutters. “I mean—I? Y-yes?” His flush grows darker.

“Huh,” Jack says, finding himself momentarily surprised that Bitty had admitted it so readily. “Well—good. In that case—yes,” he tells him, grinning.

Bitty actually shivers a little bit. “Lord—okay.” He swallows, voice coming out breathy. Jack has the sudden urge to kiss him. His jaw drops open, because the urge comes completely out of left field, so strongly that Jack has to briefly consider whether it’s just the lust talking—but no, Bitty’s smiling at him, and Jack genuinely wants to kiss him.

But—he shouldn’t. Because if Bitty is anyone’s, then he’s Kent’s, and Jack doesn’t want to accidentally overstep any boundaries.

Bitty’s looking at him strangely. “Um—are you okay?” he asks, and Jack makes a concerted effort to close his own jaw.

“I’m fine,” he says, and then he takes a leaf from Kent’s book and diverts the question with an allusion to sex—“I’m just thinking about— _things_ ,” he says, and winks.

This time, it’s Bitty’s jaw that drops. “ _Oh,_ ” he says softly, and—Jack really wants to kiss him.

Maybe—not his lips. That’ll have less of a chance of upsetting someone, right?

He takes a quick glance around to make sure no one’s in the hallway with them, even though he can’t even see anyone through the glass of the partitions this early in the morning. Then he leans forward and presses his lips to Bitty’s cheek, lingering briefly in the warmth from Bitty’s face before pulling away.

Belatedly, Bitty squeaks. “U-um—Zimms! I—Lord, what was—I, oh, never mind!” He shakes his head quickly.

Feeling suddenly embarrassed, Jack gestures to Bitty’s cup. “Are you done with your coffee?”

“Uh—no,” Bitty says, and starts drinking it so quickly that Jack wouldn’t be surprised if he gets the jitters from the caffeine.

“Well then I’m—um. Gonna go to the bathroom.” Jack jerks his head vaguely toward the end of the hallway. Then he gets up and heads in that direction, feeling his own face starting to redden—God, he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

He does glance back once before he reaches the corner. Bitty’s sitting still on the bench, one hand gripping his cup and the other touching his face, right where Jack’s lips had been.

It makes him feel—well, really nice, if he’s being honest. He hasn’t felt this way since way back when he and Kent first met, he thinks, and then he immediately wonders if that should be saying something about his relationship with Bitty.

Huh. Wow. He might be— _crushing_ on him? It sounds like such a juvenile word, one that Jack’s sure Kent would raise an eyebrow at if he told him. But—Jack is going to tell him anyway, because he wants Kent’s input and also because if Kent really does end up wanting to date Bitty, Jack has no place pursuing him.

But the thought of Kent and Bitty together, permanently, _without Jack_ —that sets his stomach turning. Oh, there’s the jealousy, then.

Maybe he’d never really been jealous of the sex. Maybe it’d really been the thought of Kent leaving him that had done it, and he realizes with sudden, startling clarity as he pushes open the bathroom door that—well, fuck.

There’s a chance that he really, really does want to date Kent. As in, he wants to be with him forever—or a really long time, at least—and kiss him and cuddle with him and continue all of the touching they’ve been doing recently, the kind that Jack had been trying to distance himself from for so long—and oh. That explains some things, then, like why whenever Kent walks into the room, Jack instinctively wants to go to him, to kiss him. It explains why when Kent had looked at him and said _I’m in love with you_ early this morning, Jack had been very, very torn—because half of him had been terrified of it, terrified that Kent didn’t really mean it or that one of them was going to get hurt by it in the end. But the other half of him, the one that beats more insistently in his heart the more he thinks of it—that half had truly, desperately wanted to say it back.

_Oh_.

It’s like the world shifts.

He straightens up, realizing he’d just spent the past couple of minutes leaning over one of the bathroom sinks. He hadn’t even checked to see if anyone was in here, too wrapped up in his own thoughts to consider the fact that someone could see him—and of course, no one’s around when he does look. It’s too early for that, but doesn’t stop him from feeling jumpy as he uses the urinal and washes his hands.

And that’s silly. No one can tell his feelings just by looking at his face, and it’s not even really a _new_ realization—he’s loved Kent in some shape or form since nearly the first day they’d met, back when they were young and free and still played hockey. This isn’t even the first time he’s thought it romantically—it’s just the first time he hasn’t been so scared of it that he wants to dismiss it immediately.

He probably should have thought about this before, especially since he and Kent have been so damn close these past few weeks. Maybe he’d been hiding his feelings, maybe he’d been scared—whatever the reason for his reluctance, it feels like strangely enough, having Bitty around has made all of his inhibitions less—less _anything_ , really. The thought comes with warmth in it, the kind that seeps into his bones and reminds him just how it’d felt to have Bitty watching as Jack had stared into Kent’s eyes as he’d fucked him, and—and yeah, it feels nice. It’s really nice.

He’s smiling as he leaves the restroom.

xXx

“Oh, he showed you the sim room?” Parse chomps down on his sandwich, and Bitty nods excitedly. They’ve joined several of their floor-mates for dinner, which is something that’s become pretty routine as of late, and most everyone is absorbed in watching Ransom and Holster play an interesting game that involves putting food in each other’s mouths in the strangest way possible.

But Parse tunes them out and listens to Bitty as he tells him about the sim room, even though Bitty’s completely sure that Parse has heard it all before, and it makes his heart feel warm.

Bitty chatters all about how Zimms had shown Bitty two different rooms, one to test tactical decision-making and one for practicing combat scenarios. He tells Parse all about the basic tutorials they’d run through—all the sims used a virtual reality system, the likes of which Bitty hadn’t even known existed. (“It’s not available on the public market yet,” Zimms had said when Bitty’d enquired about it.) He tells him about the combat sim Zimms had demonstrated for him, which had been interesting since Bitty hadn’t been able to see what Zimms was seeing—but even then, Bitty could tell he had impeccable form. Watching Zimms move was like watching a storm roll across the sky, so much power wrapped up in a surprisingly lithe body, one that Bitty has definitely learned to appreciate since they’d—well.

And all through his conversation with Parse, Bitty’s constantly aware of how damn _happy_ he feels. He’s surrounded by people he likes, people who like him in return. They’re more than floormates—they’re his friends, he thinks. And gosh. He’s never had so many friends before.

Lardo, one of the few in the group who doesn’t live on his floor, is currently sitting at Bitty’s side and taking bets on Ransom and Holster’s game. (How anyone can tell who’s winning or not, Bitty has no idea.) He’s got Chowder on his other side, deep in discussion with his “secret” girlfriend Farmer about something to do with sharks, and Dex and Nursey are beside them, deep in an argument about something that Bitty had never caught the beginning of. Even Johnson is here, sitting quietly at the end of the table, winking at Bitty when Bitty catches his eye—and maybe Johnson’s making fun of him for never sleeping in their room. Bitty’s never sure with him.

Zimms hadn’t been able to make dinner tonight, citing work reasons, but Parse is across from Bitty as always, ever-present smirk on his face and his foot pressed up against Bitty’s underneath the table. It occurs to Bitty that he should maybe be embarrassed about touching Parse like this in public, but they’re packed so tightly into the table that it’s not likely that anyone will be able to tell—except then Parse starts drawing his toe up the inside of Bitty’s calf, and _that_ makes Bitty nearly jump out of his seat. He gives Parse a warning glare, and Parse stops, but not before giving him a thinly veiled suggestive grin. And Parse has stopped, but Bitty’s libido hasn’t, spiraling in his groin so intensely that he can barely pay attention to the conversations around them.

He wonders—well. He’s sure that Parse had talked to Zimms this morning, and Zimms hadn’t seemed bothered at all by the fact that he and Parse had slept together—on the contrary, Zimms had been almost overly interested in the details. Not that Bitty had minded—it’s nice to be able to talk about sex now that he’s actually had it, he reflects. But he wonders—if Parse and Zimms had talked about it, does that mean that it’d be okay for he and Parse to do it again?

He gets somewhat of an answer when they’re walking back to the residence quarters, as Parse mumbles something about going up to Zimms’ room. And that’s fine, Zimms probably wants to be included, then—not that Bitty minds it at all, but he chalks it up as an interesting observation and files it away in his mind.

He’s not expecting the way Zimms jumps Parse as soon as the door is closed, pressing him against the wall and kissing him so hard that Bitty can hear their teeth clack. Maybe there’d been pent up sexual frustration from this morning—Bitty’s not sure, but the tension escalates so quickly that it’s almost unbearable. He wants to be out of his clothes and touching somebody _now_ , and it’s just as soon as he thinks that thought that Parse pulls his mouth away from Zimms’ and mumbles, “Wanna watch us fuck?”

“Mmph—yes,” Zimms growls, and if Bitty were him, he might’ve been disappointed that he wouldn’t get to join in. But Zimms doesn’t seem bothered by it at all; he kisses Parse firmly again and then leads them into the bedroom, pulling up a chair and leaving Bitty painfully aware of how on display he and Parse are going to be.

“Come here, Bits,” Parse murmurs, and his touch feels hotter than a just-baked pie when he finally slides his hands up Bitty’s shirt.

Bitty had thought it’d feel embarrassing to be doing this again, especially since Zimms is touching himself while he watches, but Bitty falls into the warm space of Parse’s arms and instantly feels better. He lets Parse kiss him until he’s bleary from it, and then Parse says, “Want you to fuck me,” the words muffled against Bitty’s lips.

“Sure, honey,” Bitty sighs, a bit dizzy with lust, and Parse presses a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Isn’t he gorgeous?” Parse turns and asks Zimms as he pulls Bitty’s clothes off, and Bitty’s far too gone to care about having Zimms’ eyes roving over him, all of Zimms’ focus directed straight at Bitty’s body, Lord.

“Yes, he is,” Zimms nearly growls, and Bitty squirms at the lust that’s roughened his voice.

Parse strips naked and opts to open himself up instead of letting Bitty do it—and Bitty’s a little sad about that at first because Lord, he loves touching Parse. But the way Parse is looking at him leaves no doubt in his mind that it’s only because Parse wants him _now_ —and watching Parse press three slick fingers into his ass has Bitty whimpering by proxy. Then Parse pushes up onto his hands and knees, groaning, “I’m ready,” and Bitty nods and puts a condom on, lining himself up, pressing in, _oh_. The heat is so intense that it’s like striking a match against his hips, and when Bitty groans, Parse looks over his shoulder and gives him a cheeky smile and says, “Harder, Bits.”

Bitty complies. And minutes later, he comes way faster than he would’ve liked, crying out, “ _Oh God_ , _Parse_ — _!_ ” as he slumps over his back. Bitty can _feel_ it immediately after when Parse comes too, squeezing around him with a choked sob, body shuddering under Bitty’s, and oh, that was so _good_.

Bitty turns to look at Zimms and finds that he’s not surprised that Zimms has come as well, the evidence splattered all over his hand and his bare stomach. “Didja like that?” Bitty asks him, grinning a little.

Zimms’ eyebrows raise as he grins back. “Of course I did. I like watching my—watching Parse get fucked, you know.”

_My—_ there hadn’t been a follow-up to the word, but it doesn’t need one. Parse is Zimms’. That had come through loud and clear. When did that happen, Bitty wonders? Or has it always been true?

He feels like he should be worrying about it more, but Parse keeps grinning at them while they clean up, and when they’re done Parse pushes him back onto the bed for a series of warm kisses that leave Bitty breathless and miraculously included.

And then they cuddle, all three of them, and—and maybe it’s okay if Parse is Zimms’ if it means Bitty’s still allowed to have this, one of his boys on each side—well, they’re not exactly _his_ , but it’s close enough. Even when being trapped between them starts making him too hot, he can’t bring himself to feel annoyed by it.

He drifts into a warm haze of sleep with someone’s thumb rubbing small circles over his hipbone.

When he wakes up, it’s to the distinct feel of morning wood pressing against his bare ass. He groans softly, still not quite awake, and shifts his hips backwards to get more friction—it’s Parse, it must be, because Parse is the only one who Bitty’s ever woken up pressed against like this.

Except then he blinks his eyes open, and Parse is sprawled across the pillow in front of him instead. He turns his head to see Zimms behind him, eyeing him questioningly. “Oh,” Bitty says softly, flushing. “Sorry.”

“Do you not want—?” Zimms says, and Bitty can hear him swallow.

Bitty flushes. “Do you?”

“I mean—“ Zimms licks his lips, lifting his head up to look over Bitty’s body at Parse, and Bitty turns to see that Parse is still fast asleep. “Would it bother you if we did—things? Without him?” Zimms asks, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. His voice is husky in a way that makes Bitty’s skin crawl with pleasant sensations, and he shivers into it.

What could it hurt? He gives Zimms a coy smile and says, “No, not at all.”

“Nngh. Okay,” Zimms says, and then he presses his face into the nape of Bitty’s neck, curling his hand around Bitty’s hip. Bitty’s taken aback at how warm and sensual it feels to have Zimms holding him like this without Parse even awake—and it doesn’t mean he likes Parse any less, he thinks. It just means that he likes Zimms too.

“Want me to touch you?” Zimms asks, lips at his ear, sliding his fingers over Bitty’s thigh. But then his dick twitches against Bitty’s ass and Bitty wants _more_.

“I dunno,” Bitty says breathily. “You gonna fuck me?”

Zimms groans. “Really—you’d let me?”

“Mhmm.” Bitty nods, letting his eyes drift closed. “Bet Parse wouldn’t mind wakin’ up to that.”

“Oh?” Zimms asks, and then he shifts backwards, drifting his knuckles over Bitty’s ass.

“Ye-eah.” Bitty’s breath hitches. Slowly, draws his knee forward so that his legs are spread, ass angled toward Zimms. He hears Zimms chuckle quietly behind him and asks, “What?”

“You want me,” Zimms says, sounding a little incredulous.

“’Course,” Bitty mumbles, and Zimms presses a kiss to his shoulder that makes his skin tingle.

The bed dips as Zimms briefly sits up. Bitty hears the pop of the lube cap opening and giggles from giddiness as his eyes roam over Parse’s sleeping face, the way his chest rises and the golden color of his eyelashes. He wonders how long it’ll be before Parse realizes what they’re doing.

Zimms’ fingers are wet when they brush against Bitty’s ass again, and Bitty curls his torso toward Parse so Zimms can get a good angle. “Mmn,” he moans as Zimms lies down next to him, spreads him open and slowly pushes a slick finger into him.

“That okay?” Zimms asks, and Bitty nods, whimpering. “You like this, eh?”

“It’s—I dunno,” Bitty flushes. Having Zimms in him like this just makes him feel nice. It makes him feel wanted. “It’s good, I like it. I like—sex,” he says finally, groaning in embarrassment when Zimms chuckles at him.

“That’s a good thing,” Zimms murmurs, gesturing at Parse. “Because he’s always willing.”

Parse blinks his eyes open suddenly—and Bitty probably should have expected that, if he’s being honest. There’s no way Parse could’ve stayed asleep through all their shifting around. “Hey! Am not!” Parse pouts at Zimms.

Bitty and Zimms both start laughing. “You were pretending to be asleep,” Bitty points out, poking Parse’s shoulder.

“I _was_ asleep,” Parse corrects. “And then I woke up when you started whimpering, and I was just gonna let you guys do your thing but then Zimms started telling lies about me—“

Zimms raises an eyebrow. “Give me one example of a time that I wanted to have sex with you and you said no.”

“I did! When I was hiding Bitty in my room,” Parse retorts.

Zimms snorts. “Hmm, I’ll give you that. Fine. Give me another one.”

“I can’t,” Parse admits, rolling onto his back and looking up at the ceiling. “But that’s cuz it’s _you_. That doesn’t mean I’m willing to have sex with _anyone_ all the time—“

“Oh,” Bitty says, the word escaping his mouth before his can trap it in his throat.

Parse looks at him, brow furrowed in realization. “Bits—I didn’t mean—you too, okay? I mean, sometimes I’ll probably be too tired, but—fuck.” He groans. “I, um. I want to have sex with you a lot, okay?”

Bitty’s face burns both from his lingering flare of disappointment and from the sincerity in Parse’s eyes. “Me—too?” he breathes, feeling lost.

Parse scoots closer and grabs his hand. “I say stupid shit sometimes. Don’t let it make you sad, okay?”

“He does,” Zimms remarks wryly, and Parse lifts his head up and shoots him a glare. “But that doesn’t mean he likes you any less, I’ve realized,” Zimms continues, and Parse has to look away.

“Of course not,” Parse murmurs to Bitty. “I—fuck. Sorry, that killed the mood, didn’t it?”

“Um.” Bitty’s voice feels rusty. At some point Zimms’ finger had slipped out of him, and even though Bitty’s mostly gone soft, he doesn’t think it’d take much to get him hard again. “Not—all the way?”

“Oh. Good.” Parse looks relieved. “I wanna watch him make you feel good,” he murmurs.

“Okay,” Bitty says quietly, a smile growing on his face.

Zimms slips his finger back into Bitty just as Parse kisses him, licking into Bitty’s mouth with careful strokes of his tongue, and then Zimms starts to work a second finger in and Bitty squirms uninhibitedly between them.

“You like him finger fucking you?” Parse asks against Bitty’s lips, and Bitty huffs an embarrassed laugh because he’s definitely hard again now.

“Umm. Yeah,” Bitty admits, and behind him Zimms makes a pleased noise and presses his fingers in further, aiming for—“Oh,” Bitty gasps, “Yes, _please_ —“

“Like that?” Zimms says huskily, and Bitty can barely nod he’s feeling so heady and aroused.

“You’re cute when you’re turned on.” Parse grins. “Mm, fuck. Is he tight, Zimms?” he asks, reaching a hand down to lazily stroke at his own dick.

“Yeah,” Zimms says, slipping a third finger in and causing Bitty to moan.

“You want him, yeah?” Parse asks.

“Mhmm,” Zimms nods, his voice abruptly closer to Bitty’s ear, and then he starts nuzzling at Bitty’s neck and Bitty yelps.

“Nngh!” Bitty squirms, and the squirming makes him hyper-aware of Zimms’ fingers inside him and the way Parse is inches from his face, smirking, eyes soft—“H-hi,” Bitty breathes, and Parse’s smirk widens.

“Hey there,” he says, reaching his hand up to rest in the curve of Bitty’s waist. “He feel good?”

Zimms is suckling at the place where his neck meets his shoulder and Parse is looking at him with happiness glowing in his eyes and Bitty feels like his entire body is slowly being eaten up by the pleasure. Zimms fingers into him slowly, out, then in again, and Bitty nods helplessly at Parse. “He’s—yeah, it’s really go-ood,” he mumbles brokenly, and fuck, he needs more.

“Mmm,” Zimms hums against his neck. “You ready?”

“Yeah, I think—yeah,” Bitty says, hissing as Zimms pulls his fingers away. “God, I need—please,” he squirms, and Parse pats his hip as Zimms sits up behind him, presumably to get a condom.

“S’okay,” Parse murmurs, “He’s gonna fill you up in a minute, isn’t he? It’s gonna be so good, baby, God, he feels so fuckin good,” he rambles, breath ragged, and Bitty’s face burns.

“Is it—okay? We didn’t ask, but,” Bitty says, cutting off with a shiver as Zimms nestles himself behind him.

“Huh? Yeah, ’course,” Parse gives him a dopey grin. “Shit, you guys are sexy. I wanna watch him make you come…” He squeezes Bitty’s thigh, pupils wide.

“Parse—can you hold him open?” Zimms murmurs, and Bitty’s heart races as he feels the slick head of Zimms’ dick nudging at his crack.

“Yeah, here,” Parse says, slipping his hand up Bitty’s thigh so he can tug at one cheek, spreading Bitty wide.

And then Zimms starts pushing in and Bitty squeezes his eyes shut, trembling, letting himself just feel the way Zimms is fitting inside of him, the way Zimms groans when he bottoms out and the way Bitty is so, so full, “ _Oh_ , God, that’s—hell, that’s nice,” Bitty sighs, and Zimms nods wordlessly against his back.

“Bi-its—” Parse says, the name catching on his tongue in a way that’s far too attractive for Bitty’s good. He lets go of Bitty’s ass and moves his hand to Bitty’s dick instead, curling his fingers into a tight ring that has Bitty whimpering almost instantly. “C’mon, yeah, fuck my hand,” Parse instructs, and Bitty grabs onto his shoulder and slowly tries to move his hips—and behind him, Zimms makes a stifled gasp, because now Bitty’s sliding onto him over and over again, trapped between Zimms’ dick and Parse’s hand. “You got it, baby,” Parse grins, and Bitty’s dimly aware that Parse’s twisted himself so he can touch his own dick at the same time.

Zimms shifts his hips, pressing closer, and suddenly he’s at an angle where he’s nailing Bitty’s prostate, over and over and over and—“Oh— _oh_ , _God,_ I’m—Zimms I’m gonna—“ Bitty gasps out, losing the train of his sentence as Zimms presses in again and Parse’s hand strokes faster, faster. “I, I, _oh—!_ ”

The world goes fuzzy as Bitty shudders through his orgasm, Parse’s hand growing slippery on his dick until Bitty has to push him away with a groan. Then Parse takes starts jerking himself off in earnest, and Bitty watches with widened eyes as Zimms curls an arm over his waist. “Okay if I keep going?” Zimms asks him.

“Sure, honey,” Bitty mumbles unthinkingly.

Parse raises his eyebrows at him. “I thought I was ‘honey’?” he grins as Zimms resumes, quickening his rhythm, making Bitty jolt with each and every aftershock.

Bitty flushes. “I—you’re—! Gosh, you shush.” Parse—God, he’d said that almost as if it meant Bitty were _his_ , and oh, how he wishes that were true.

“Can you—get on your hands and knees?” Zimms groans out, thrusts slowly growing more unsteady.

“Y-yeah,” Bitty gasps, and together they manage to heave themselves up without Zimms falling out all the way—and Lord, _now_ Zimms fucks him, slamming into him so quickly that Bitty can’t help the strangled whine coming from his throat even though he’s already come. His eyes flick to Parse and Parse grins at him, eyes half-lidded, obviously close himself.

Bitty groans and just lets himself feel it all, feel how Zimms is grasping at his waist, how he’s slowly leaning closer to Bitty as his movements grow more erratic—and then he gasps wordlessly, and Bitty can feel Zimms’ dick pulsing inside him when he comes with a shuddery roll of his hips.

“Shit, you guys are so—ohhhh, _fuck_.” Parse groans as he brings himself off moments later, as Zimms pulls out and Bitty collapses gingerly beside him.

Zimms goes to clean himself off, and Bitty’s not expecting the way Zimms comes back and nudges at his chin, pulling him in for a slow kiss. Bitty’s eyes widen and he sighs into it, heart beating just a little bit faster, and Parse’s hand on his waist isn’t exactly helping—they’re both touching him, electricity zapping against his skin, and Bitty loses himself in the tumble of feelings in his chest.

xXx

Bitty doesn’t know what to expect, days later, as he makes his way down to the therapy office. He’s never been before, and he doesn’t know if he’s going to have to talk about his sexuality, or about Parse and Zimms, or about everything in between. He doesn’t know if he _wants_ to talk about all of that stuff, but Zimms had said that therapy was good for him, and when Bitty had talked to Parse last night, Parse had agreed.

“It isn’t so bad, Bitty. I didn’t like it at first, but—it really helped.” Parse had thumped him on the back, looking thoughtful.

But as Bitty knocks on the door, wiping his hands nervously on his pants, he certainly doesn’t anticipate recognizing the face on the other side—“Nancy?” he gapes as the door swings open.

“You’ve got it, honey. Come on in!” she beckons.

“But—” Bitty blinks at her, still stunned. “I thought you worked in the kitchen!”

“Oh, I do. Sometimes I’m on cleaning duty too. Don’t worry about it, dear, I’m wherever I’m needed.” She gives him a warm smile.

Bitty is still confused, but the room he walks into is cozy and well-lit, a comfy looking couch along one wall and a multitude of bean bags stacked in the corner.

Nancy sits down at a neat desk, swiveling the chair so it faces the rest of the room. “Make yourself comfortable!” she tells him, and Bitty walks over and takes a seat on the couch. “Now, it goes without sayin’ that this is all confidential, all right?”

Bitty nods, blinking. “Wait—so that time in the kitchen—?”

“Yep, that too.” Nancy smiles. “Any time you wanna talk, hun. I’ll be around.”

Slowly, Bitty nods again. “Um. Do you need to take notes or something?” He twists his hands into the hem of his shirt.

“I keep it all up here.” Nancy laughs and taps at her head, curls swaying softly. “Now. Anything you wanna talk about? How is that boy you were worryin’ about?”

It’s on the tip of Bitty’s tongue to say ‘ _which one?’_ , but he stops himself—and then he remembers where he is and realizes that he can probably go ahead and talk about both of them. But—“Should I worry about telling you things about other people?” he says slowly.

“I’ve conveniently forgotten everything anyone says about anyone else except what you tell me in here,” she rattles off, smiling vaguely. “It’s more conducive to the plot.”

“Um? Okay,” Bitty says, laughing nervously. “Okay, um. Oh—” he pauses, worrying at his lip as he remembers something Parse had said—it’s in the Aces’ rules that relationships aren’t really allowed. He wonders if he can get in trouble for discussing that with Nancy. She’d _said_ everything was confidential, but—

“My lips are sealed, child.” She mimes zipping her mouth closed.

This time when Bitty laughs, he doesn’t feel nearly as anxious. “Sorry. Um. So—last time we talked, I didn’t mention—well. There are actually two boys I’m worried about? Ugh, that sounds silly.” He shakes his head, staring at the floor.

“That’s not silly at all,” Nancy tells him. “Whatcha worryin’ about?”

Bitty swallows, blushing fiercely. “I, uh. I talked to them like you said, and um, I ended up. Uhh. Sleeping with them.”

“And are you happy about it?” Nancy says, her expression not betraying any sort of disgust, and Bitty breathes out a sigh of relief that he hadn’t known he was holding in.

“Well, I am, but,” he stalls, eyes skating around the sunny photos of the grounds that are hanging on the walls. “But they’re kinda—together. And I—gosh, I don’t think it’s gonna work out for me,” he admits quietly. “I’ve been tryin’ not to think about it because I like being with both of them a lot, and one of them especially—he’s special to me, and I just—I’m a little broken up about it, I guess.” He smiles self-deprecatingly.

Nancy clucks sympathetically. “Aww, honey. Of course you are.”

And like a dam bursting, Bitty’s emotions come spilling out of his mouth, things he hadn’t even known he was worrying about because he’d been trying to avoid them, to run far away, far away from it all—he tells her how awful it feels to be in love with Parse, because he _loves_ him but he knows instinctively that Parse doesn’t love him back, can’t love him, not without giving up on Zimms. And Bitty doesn’t _want_ him to give up on Zimms, not really, because that would be way too sad—Bitty only has to think of the shattered way Parse had looked when he’d admitted he was in love to know that he would never want to cause them to break apart.

He’s already done enough damage as it is, he thinks. He’s not even supposed to _be_ here, and if it weren’t for Parse—and Zimms too, really—he wouldn’t even exist anymore.

And that drags a whole slew of other feelings out of him—God, he’s so fucking _scared_. He’s almost glad that he has Parse to be sad about, because Parse and Zimms and the whole mess between them is one of the only things keeping Bitty from worrying about the possibility of dying all the fucking time. Parse and Zimms don’t talk about it in front of him, but he can see it in their eyes, the way Zimms’ gaze is a mix of stern and worrisome when Bitty practices sparring, the way Parse almost looks relieved every time Bitty perfects a new knife sequence. He’s started visiting the sim rooms now with both of them, ramping up his training in a way that’s quickly wearing him down to the bone. But he has to pay attention, he _has_ to, because what if he has to go out soon—what if he gets hurt because he’d forgotten some small thing? What if _Parse_ gets hurt, or Zimms?

Nancy sits patiently and listens, making sympathetic comments at all the right intervals while Bitty babbles. And just when he thinks he’s all talked out, she opens his mouth and says, “You were talkin’ about being uncomfortable with other people getting hurt, just now. Have you thought about what it might be like for _you_ to have to hurt someone?”

Bitty bursts into tears.

“I don’t _want_ to!” he gasps out, wrapping his arms around himself—and God, this is so embarrassing, he hadn’t meant to cry, but now it’s out there in the open and he doesn’t know what to _do_. “I know it’s my job, I guess, but I _don’t_ —” he cuts off, shaking his head, feeling choked up. “Everything feels— _wrong_.”

But Nancy rolls her chair closer, waiting until he looks up at her to say, “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart. I’m sure your storyline’s going to have some scary parts, but it _will_ be okay. You just have to tell yourself that.”

“I’m so scared,” Bitty covers his face. “How do I make it go _away_?”

“That’s somethin’ that’s easier said than done,” Nancy tells him. “You’re not going to be able to close your eyes and turn away from whatever’s scarin’ ya. But you can decide to stand up and face it head on, and that part’s more mental than anything.”

Swallowing, Bitty nods, because he’ll take anything— _anything_ that will loosen the tight knot of terror that’s been hiding in the back of his throat since he’d arrived here weeks ago. “So how do I do that?”

Nancy talks him through a couple of mental exercises to deal with fear, and at the end of the appointment, he walks out of the room feeling exhausted but refreshed. It’d been so _nice_ to discuss his life with someone who won’t judge him. He feels lighter now, he thinks, and even though his situation hasn’t changed at all, everything seems more palatable without that load on his back.

He checks the time on one of the sim room kiosks as he walks by and is surprised to find that the whole appointment had only lasted an hour and a half.

xXx

The next morning, he walks into sparring practice with Zimms, still feeling nervous as ever. This is the first day they’re going to be doing one-on-one sparring after a week of practicing with the simulations, and he’s fairly anxious. But when Zimms comes at him, he steels himself and lets his body relax— _Zimms is coming at him from this angle so he needs to step to the side and aim the blade—there_.

He’s not actually holding a knife, but his hand lands straight against Zimms’ neck.

Zimms blinks at him in shock. “You did it.”

“I—I did?” Bitty says, shivering away the lingering fear that sits in his skin. He pulls his hand away and stares at it. “I—gosh, I did!”

“Think you can do it again?” Zimms asks, sliding into his stance again, and Bitty’s a little annoyed that Zimms doesn’t seem more impressed, but he prepares himself nonetheless.

Zimms fist flies toward his face.

Bitty dodges, spins, aims the side of his hand at Zimms’ heart—and he sticks the landing, panting, as Zimms stares at him in surprise.

“Again,” Zimms says. “Third time’s the charm.”

And of course they do it a fourth time and a fifth, on and on until Bitty groans and leans up against the wall, out of breath. “I gotta—take a break,” he gasps.

Zimms’ face breaks into a smile. “Holy shit, Bitty. You’re getting better.”

The praise strikes a pleasing chord in Bitty’s spine, and he straightens, grinning up at Zimms. “You think so?”

“I’d like to pull someone else in here to spar with you, in case you’re just getting used to me—since we’ve been, um.” Zimms shrugs, and Bitty laughs. “But yeah. You looked good. You’re really starting to position your body the right way, instead of tensing up and flinching all the time. Do you think the sims are helping?”

Bitty thinks about it and nods. At first he’d been terrified because the realism with which the virtual reality program sent opponents at him was stunning, but it’d gotten a lot easier once he’d realized that they couldn’t actually hurt him. “Yeah, honestly. I think it has.” He grins breathlessly.

Zimms furrows his brow. “Huh. Maybe we should’ve started with that first.”

“Oh! Um. Maybe? But I dunno if that really would’ve worked,” Bitty says. “I feel like it might’ve just made having a real person scarier in the long run, if I’d started off with the fake scenarios?”

“Hmm.” Zimms nods. “Good, then, eh? Your training’s been working.”

“Yeah.” Bitty grins at him. “It has.”

They tell Parse about it later, over lunch. Zimms joins them for once, looking slightly awkward up until Lardo sits next to him and nudges him silently with her elbow, after which he relaxes substantially.

When Zimms tells Parse about that morning’s training, Parse let’s out an honest-to-God whoop, making Bitty blush in embarrassment. “Fuck, Bitty, that’s really great!” is all Parse gets the chance to say before Ransom and Holster are leaning in and asking what’d happened.

And then everyone starts _congratulating_ Bitty. Lardo gives him a fist-bump and Shitty pats him on the back and he’s surrounded with so many grinning faces—“Oh goodness, y’all, it’s not that big a deal,” he says, trying to play it off.

But of all people, Zimms is the one to ruffle his hair and say, “You deserve it, bud.” The touch sends warm pleasure flowing through Bitty’s veins, and Zimms is smiling and Parse is half-smirking across from him and Bitty feels so, so relieved.

He’s making something of himself. He’s not a complete waste of time to train, not like he’d felt in the beginning.

He could go on like this, sitting with these people at mealtime, training with Zimms and Parse every day. It could go on forever and he would be happy, even with the oddities of being trapped in a love triangle, even with the strange, terrifying concept of their profession. He’d be blessed, he thinks, to be able to meet Parse’s eyes with a smile for every day onwards.

But it seems there’s only so much happiness he can be allowed in this world, because the day after that, everything changes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two chapters left after this one! Thanks so much to everyone for sticking with it <3

Kent and Bitty are in Kent’s room, sitting at the table and discussing Bitty’s future training when they hear a knock on the door. Kent gets up to open it, unsurprised to find Jack on the other side. “What, couldn’t wait for us to come over?” Kent grins at him.

But Jack doesn’t grin back. That’s the first indication Kent has that something isn’t right. Instead, Jack closes the door behind him and says, “Parse, I need to talk to you. Preferably alone. Sorry.” He aims that last word at Bitty, and Bitty ducks his head.

“I can, um, go to my room,” Bitty says, rising to leave.

But Kent stops him. “Hang on.” He holds a hand out. “Did I fuck something up? ’Cuz if that’s what this is, then I don’t mind him hearing it.” He’s not going to admit that the request is fairly self-serving; he half expects that he’s about to get chewed out and he hopes that maybe Jack will go easy on him if Bitty’s watching.

“No. He should leave.” Jack shakes his head, and Kent sighs. Fuck. Except then Jack adds, “But you’re not in trouble. Neither of you are.”

Kent feels relief bubble up from his chest. “Oh, good. Then what’s going on?”

Jack glances at Bitty, and Bitty says, “I can leave. Really. If y’all have business—it’s fine,” he shrinks into himself, and Kent bites his lip because he has no idea what Bitty’s thinking right now, but it seems like Bitty’s nervous about it. Hell, Kent’s nervous about what this conversation could mean, because Jack has an indecipherable expression on his face and decoding it would take far more time than simply waiting for Jack to explain.

Jack swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and shakes his head distractedly. “You know what—never mind. Maybe it’s better that you hear this anyway,” he tells Bitty.

Bitty’s eyes widen. “All right,” he says, sitting back down. Kent offers Jack his chair, but Jack declines, so Kent sits down too while they quietly wait for Jack to speak.

Jack runs a hand through his hair, looking visibly stressed. “I have—a dilemma,” he says roughly, furrowing his brow. “I just received a mission request memo from the Heads. Trouble is, I don’t know who to send out on the team.”

And the fact that Jack is having difficulties is a little unnerving. Jack usually has an uncanny knack for strategizing proper teams, and while Lardo handles the actual mission plans for their cohort, Jack has the final say on who goes. Not to mention that Jack doesn’t usually go to Kent of all people for this particular kind of problem—it’s a question far more suited toward someone on the strategy team. “Uh, give me the stats, I guess?” Kent asks, bewildered.

Jack exhales, pacing back and forth for a moment. “We know it’s organized crime. It’s an older group, but they were lying low for a while, and it’s just recently that they’ve resurfaced.”

“All right.” Kent nods slowly. “Have you gotten an outline from Lardo yet?”

“A very basic one,” Jack says, crossing the room yet again and finally sitting down heavily on Kent’s bed. “We’ll need a small group, good chemistry, two to four preferably. Mission might take a couple of days at most. It’s gotta be fast. These guys are dangerous.”

“Hmm. Ransom and Holster?” Kent leans back on two chair legs, but Jack starts shaking his head halfway through his sentence.

“Nope, needs to be subtle infiltration.”

“Huh. Ollie and Wicks, then?”

Jack wrinkles his nose. “Remember the last time they went out on their own?”

“Oh God, that’s a no, then. Oh—” Parse turns to Bitty, who looks confused. “So they got through the mission all right, but they somehow got lost on the way home and ended up being gone for like a week with no communication—the Heads were majorly pissed, and, uh. Shit went down,” he explains, unable to keep his lips from twisting.

Bitty’s brow wrinkles. “What happened to them?”

“It’s classified,” Jack cuts in immediately, and Kent feels a little relieved. It _is_ classified, technically, but he thinks the rumor mill had kept everyone fairly well informed on that incident. No way in hell he wants to explain it to Bitty, not when Bitty’s in so much danger himself—fuck, and now he’s worrying again. It’d been a wonder Ollie and Wicks were allowed to live, and they’d been well-established members of the team.

Bitty can’t step a toe out of line, or—no. No. Even just considering the possibility makes bile want to rise in Kent’s stomach, so he won’t think about it.

They’ll keep Bitty safe, whatever it takes.

“Shit, I know most of the others only like working in groups. Big warehouse takeovers and shit.” Kent sits up, the legs of his chair coming down with a clunk. “ _Maybe_ Tango and Whiskey?”

Snorting, Jack shakes his head again. “Tango’s not subtle. Besides, we need close range attackers,” Jack explains, the last trace of humor disappearing off of his face as quickly as it had appeared.

“Do we even have anyone like that?” Kent wrinkles his brow, drumming his fingers on the table.

Jack nods shortly, gaze flickering briefly away, as if he’s guilty about something—

The meaning behind Jack’s questioning slowly dawns on Kent. Jack hadn’t really wanted input.

He’d just wanted Kent to come to this conclusion on his own.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Kent breathes. “You mean—us.”

Jack’s gaze goes dull. He nods.

Across the table from Kent, Bitty stifles a gasp, but Kent can’t take his eyes away from Jack’s face. “Zimms. Wait—are you lifting my ban, or—you can’t mean that Bitty’s coming, can you?”

Jack’s lips twist. “If it were up to me, I’d have lifted the ban weeks ago. But the Heads—I think they knew that we’d have to be the ones on the job, ’cuz when I met with them today they asked if he was mission ready—and fuck. I said that he’d probably be fine.” Jack lets out a groan, looking miserable.

Kent stares at him. “What.”

Leaning forward, Jack drops his head into his hands. “They hadn’t given me the mission statement yet. I didn’t _know!_ ”

Out of the corner of Kent’s eye, Bitty’s face goes white. _Fuck_.

Kent’s anger flares, building rapidly in his chest and consuming everything else in its wake. “God fucking _damnit!_ ” he bursts out, banging his fist on the table and rattling the leftover silverware that’s sitting on it. Bitty flinches. Kent immediately feels a little bad, but it seems like the damage has already been done, because Bitty looks terrified. “Zimms, we _can’t_ ,” he stresses, gritting his teeth.

“Parse—it ain’t—you don’t have to get mad,” Bitty says softly. “I know I ain’t great at much, but—I can _try_.” His worried gaze flicks back and forth between Kent and Jack, like a wild animal caught by headlights in the middle of the road.

And God, Bitty probably thinks that Kent’s saying he’s inadequate or something. “Sorry, Bitty,” Kent says tightly. “It’s not—don’t worry. It’s not you. It’s just—it’s this whole fucked up thing.”

Bitty hugs himself dropping his eyes to the table. “Are you—mad at Zimms?”

“I—fuck. Maybe a little.” Kent sighs. “Shit, I guess I shouldn’t be, but…” He swallows, braving a glance at Jack’s face. He looks even more stressed than he had at first, which means Kent’s reaction is definitely freaking him out—fuck. Kent stands, walking over and plopping down on the bed so that his shoulder brushes against Jack’s. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

Jack nods. “It’s—fine. Honestly, I’m pissed too,” he says gruffly. “They’re trying to back us into a fucking corner.”

“What are y’all talking about?” Bitty asks timidly. Kent looks at him and he seems smaller than ever, curled into himself, shaking slightly.

Kent’s throat tightens at the sight. “Hey,” he holds his arms out, “C’mere.” Bitty looks relieved at the invitation, springing up from his chair and exhaling softly as Kent pulls him sideways into his lap. And that’s better—already Kent can feel some of the tension leaking from his body, flowing out from the points where his skin is touching Bitty, where his shoulder is touching Jack.

“Should we—tell him?” Jack asks Kent seriously, eyes trained on Bitty.

Bitty ducks his head at the scrutiny, and Kent pats his hip, thinking about it. “I feel like I’d wanna know,” Kent admits, against his better judgement. He doesn’t _want_ to tell Bitty; they’d managed to keep it under wraps up till now, but with this much at stake—he thinks they need to come clean.

Jack nods slowly. “Understandable,” he shifts toward Kent, and now they’re supporting each other, leaving Kent feeling a little less unsteady. It’s nice. Jack clears his throat. “Bitty—it’s not that we’re cutting you off from information. I just don’t want to accidentally tell you something that’ll make you too scared to function out in the field.” Jack’s eyes slide to meet Bitty’s.

Bitty laughs dully, pulling a face. “I’m already fuckin’ terrified, honey. I dunno if it can get any worse than it already is.” Kent instinctively tightens his arms around Bitty at that, and Bitty laughs again, but there’s no happiness in it as he leans into Kent—just exhaustion, it looks like.

“Fuck,” Jack says, sighing. And then Bitty holds out his hand, and Jack only hesitates a little bit before taking it, intertwining their fingers tightly over Bitty’s lap. It seems almost tender, the way both of their eyes grow bright. “Um—I’m still technically your boss, you know,” Jack points out drily. “I shouldn’t be—doing this.” He swallows, cheeks going pink.

And huh. If Kent hadn’t known Jack as well as he does, he might’ve thought that Jack had some sort of feelings for Bitty.

Kent wouldn’t blame him at any rate. Hell, if anyone could convince Kent to change his mind about loving Jack, it’d be Bitty, and that hasn’t happened yet.

It’s probably a good thing for his conscience that Bitty hasn’t tried.

“You’re Parse’s boss too,” Bitty retorts, echoing Kent’s words from weeks ago.

“Yeah, yeah.” Jack snorts. “Just don’t expect hand holding all the time, eh?”

Bitty actually smiles. He’s not trembling quite as much either as he says, “I mean, we’ve already been— _together_ multiple times already, so isn’t professionalism kinda out the window at this point?”

“Maybe.” Jack smirks lightly—and damn, Jack’s trying to lighten the mood for Bitty’s sake, isn’t he? Kent watches them, heart expanding in his chest until it’s almost too tight. They’re both—fuck. Jack’s his best friend in the world, has been for a long time, and Bitty—Bitty’s honestly one of his best friends too.

He wishes they didn’t have to talk about this fucking mission. He wishes they could just sit here and—well, cuddle, really, and maybe fuck later if they’re in the mood. But instead, either he or Jack has to tell Bitty that—God. Kent doesn’t even want to think the words.

Fortunately, he doesn’t end up needing to, because then Jack’s smile falls. “So—you really want to know?” he asks Bitty, and when Bitty nods solemnly, Jack sighs. “They said—the Heads, I mean,” he clarifies, licking his lips, “They said—well, they said a whole lot of stuff, but it basically amounted to—fuck. They still think you’re a liability.”

Bitty starts trembling again.

His gaze flicks to Parse, and all Parse wants to do is to hold him, but they have to follow this through. “What does that mean?” Bitty asks, voice small.

“It means they’re going to keep a very careful eye on you,” Jack tells him. “And if you—if you look like you’re going to betray us, they could decide to—Christ,” he cuts himself off. Bitty gives a choked little gasp, and Kent doesn’t think Jack has to finish his sentence for Bitty to know what he means. But Jack continues anyway, bowing his head and muttering the words that Kent’s been avoiding since Jack had first allowed Bitty to stay—“They could still decide to have you disposed of.”

Bitty’s face goes white.

“I—no. No, _God_.” Bitty gives a little shake of his head, staring blankly. He looks stunned, and Kent’s skin prickles with distress. “I—I thought I was— _safe_.”

Jack opens his mouth, but he ends up shutting it, looking defeated. So it’s up to Kent to take Bitty’s face into his palms, making sure his own gaze is soft before he speaks. “Bitty—look. You’re not going to die. I— _we_ won’t fucking let that happen, okay? We can get through this. You’ll just have to follow our directions when we’re out there, okay? That won’t be too bad, right?”

Bitty opens his mouth to speak, but what comes out is a sob. “But—the targets. They could kill me too, and I—I’ve run through some of the sims, but I dunno what I’m _doing_ —“

“Hey.” Kent slides his thumb over Bitty’s cheek. “It’ll be fine, okay? Most of the time the targets don’t put up much of a fight, especially if we take them by surprise.”

“Uh, hang on,” Jack interjects, expression pinched, and Kent furrows his brow worriedly at him. It takes Jack a good minute to be able to open his mouth and say, “That’s the other reason I wanted to talk to you.”

A foreboding tingle shoots through Kent’s fingertips. He drops his hands back to Bitty’s hip, eyeing Jack cautiously. “What?”

Jack closes his eyes. “It’s the Schooners.”

Time stops.

When it starts again, Kent’s breathing fast, clutching at Bitty because Bitty’s the only thing keeping him from getting up and punching something. Which is dumb—he’d probably only end up hurting his hand, but—fuck this whole fucking mission. _Fuck_.

“Ow—honey—what’s wrong? What does that—I read about them in the manuals, but it was kinda vague—Parse?” Bitty says, and it takes Kent a good second to realize Bitty’s talking to him.

He loosens his hands apologetically, mumbling, “Sorry.” Then he sighs and presses his face against Bitty’s shoulder. “Fuck.”

He feels Jack shift, feels him let go of Bitty’s hand to bring his arm up around Kent’s shoulder—and it says a lot about their relationship that Kent lets him, says even more that Jack had thought to do it in the first place. Kent sags against both of them, letting his eyes fall shut.

“They’re the gang my dad was caught up with when he—died,” Kent says, purposefully muffling his words against Bitty’s skin, because maybe if they’re unrecognizable they won’t be true.

Unfortunately, Bitty inhales sharply, meaning he must have heard him. “Oh, sweetheart,” Bitty mumbles, leaning over and wrapping his arms around Kent’s neck.

But next to Kent, Jack has gone still. “Have you not—told him all of it?” he asks slowly, words coming out stilted.

Shit.

“Uhh. Nah.” Kent tries to play it off, trying to shrug, but it’s too difficult with the weight of both of their arms around him. “I didn’t wanna make a big deal out of it.”

“ _Parse_ ,” Jack says, and when Kent finally looks at him, he looks distressed. “I thought—fuck. I thought he knew.”

“Why does it matter?” Kent asks petulantly.

Jack glares at him. “That’s—that’s _everything_ between us, Parse. You don’t—fuck!” He pulls his arm away abruptly, and Kent’s skin feels icy at the loss.

“It’s not everything,” he shakes his head, starting to get frustrated. “It’s not even half of it, Zimms. Don’t even—you’re reducing our entire relationship to _that_?”

Jack scowls. “That’s not what I meant.”

Kent doesn’t believe him for a second, so he sneers, “Isn’t it?”

Silence sits heavily between them. Kent thinks it might sit there forever, bogging them down with its smothering presence—and it would have, if Bitty hadn’t squeezed his eyes shut and said, “ _Stop_! Just—Jesus, y’all. Quit it, would you?”

Jack and Kent both stare at him. Bitty looks small but fierce, blinking his eyes open with an expression that’s almost stern, and Kent sighs sharply. “Bits—look. You don’t understand—“

“Uh-uh.” Bitty shakes his head, putting a finger over Kent’s lips in a way that might feel demeaning if it were anyone else. As it is, Kent keeps his mouth shut. “I don’t have to understand everything to know that you to are makin’ yourselves miserable for no reason. So what if I don’t know y’all’s entire history? It’s not more important—“

“Bitty,” Jack interjects roughly. “ _Listen._ ”

And as suddenly as a balloon that’s been untied, Bitty deflates. “What?” he asks.

Jack’s eyes are hollow as he asks, “Do you think I’m a good person?”

Bitty doesn’t look either of them in the eye. “I—I mean. Honestly? I do. Y’all are both—I mean, your job might be killin’ people, but you’re not necessarily— _bad_ ,” he murmurs quietly.

Jack takes a slow breath. “Thank you for saying that, but—I’m not. I don’t want you to have that sort of mistaken impression of me.” His expression has grown steely, hard. Fuck.

“Zimms—” Kent tries to cut in.

But Jack keeps talking, and Kent’s powerless to stop him. “Bitty,” Jack says, “Who do you think killed Kent’s father?”

Fuck, no, he’s going _there_. Kent wants to stop him but he feels like he’s been gagged for all he can speak.

“I—well, I dunno exactly.” Bitty blinks. “Someone on the—the Schooners, right?”

“No,” Jack says, shoulders hunching. “They didn’t have anything to do with it, in the end.” He sighs sharply, eyes flicking to Kent and back, and Kent is paralyzed as Jack opens his mouth and says, “It was my dad.”

This isn’t a surprise to Kent, of course. He’d found it out long ago during the huge fight with Jack, the one that sparked a spiral that his floormates have dubbed _the incident_ even though it hadn’t been that mysterious, not really. The truth had come out, and Kent nearly hadn’t been able to take it.

But Bitty—Bitty is so surprised he’s trembling.

“W-what? Parse—that’s not true, is it?” Bitty’s voice comes out strangled.

Choking down the discomfort that’s trying to climb up his esophagus, Kent nods. And when Kent clears his throat, Bitty honest-to-God cringes at the sound—fuck, Bitty’s _scared_.

Scared of Jack, definitely. But scared of Kent too—Kent can tell by the way he’s holding himself apart from Kent’s chest. And why shouldn’t he be scared? Kent and Jack are probably monsters in his eyes.

Kent’s a monster, for looking at Jack’s betrayal and wanting to love him anyway.

So Kent pulls away from Bitty, the friction as his arms leave Bitty’s body burning like knives scraping skin. “You can leave if you want,” he says, his voice sounding dull and distant even to his own ears. “I know—we’re fucked up. You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

Bitty shudders, opening his mouth. For a moment, Kent’s heart clenches because it looks like he really is going to flee—but then he shakes his head firmly, taking one of Kent’s hands. “I ain’t leavin’ y’all.”

_God, Bitty._

Kent crumples. He folds himself around Bitty and breathes a sigh of relief because he hadn’t _really_ wanted Bitty to leave—if Bitty leaves, there’s nothing left except he and Jack and their shitty history, the kind that feels so broken it’s impossible to fix.

Bitty’s still shaking like a leaf. “What happened?” he whispers.

This time, Kent has to answer. Jack won’t tell the whole truth, or at least not the right parts—he’ll skew it to make himself look bad without giving all of Kent’s secrets away, and that’s not the story Kent wants Bitty to hear. “It was mostly like I told you earlier,” Kent says resignedly, looking away from both of them. “Dad got into a lot of debt problems with the Schooners. I was with him when they captured us, but it was our fucking luck that it ended up being the night that the Aces raided their headquarters.”

He’s lying, of course. That part hadn’t been luck.

No, luck had been Kent and Jack being on the same hockey team—lucky for the Aces, that is.

Kent doesn’t blame Jack for mentioning Kent around his father, doesn’t blame Bad Bob for connecting Kent’s last name with Kent’s dad’s. Even so, this is the part that hurts worst when he thinks of it, the part that makes his head want to fucking explode.

When he and Jack had hugged goodbye at graduation, Jack had already known that the Aces were planning to use Kent’s dad for fucking bait.

Kent grits his teeth against that particular truth because Bitty doesn’t need all the sordid details. The last thing Kent wants is for Bitty to hate Jack by the end of this, so he skims over it as best as he can, picking back up near the end of the story. “The raid went mostly as planned. A few of the Schooners escaped—they’re probably the assholes that we’ll be dealing with on this mission—and my dad and I were captured. He knew too much. That was that.” Kent shuts his eyes. “I got picked up because they figured I’d be useful, what with a contact sport background. It wasn’t too hard to teach me to hold a knife—kinda like you, I guess.” He smiles blandly at Bitty, but Bitty doesn’t look like he can bring himself to smile back, so Kent looks away and continues. “Then—I told you that Zimms and I fought, a couple years after that. Well, that was me finding out about—everything.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Bitty breathes, leaning into Kent briefly. “I bet that was hard—for both of y’all,” he adds, flicking his gaze toward Jack too.

Zimms’ jaw clenches. Kent leans forward and buries his face in Bitty’s neck. “It was hard. I almost—I—” Kent shakes his head, throat tight.

“You don’t have to tell him.” Jack nudges his elbow, a touch that’s searing hot in the wake of what Kent’s about to say.

“I want to.” Kent lets out a long sigh. “Bits—I almost gave up. It wasn’t good. I was due for a promotion and—I fucked it up. I drank a ton, and normally management doesn’t care about that, but—well. One day I drank too much.”

Bitty stiffens in his lap, forehead creasing. Kent idly rubs his back, half because the motion comforts Bitty and half because it comforts Kent himself. “Was it—okay?”

Kent swallows. “It wasn’t great—I mean, obviously it sucked, but I was fine eventually. Zimms ended up getting the promotion instead, though. And it wasn’t his fault, not really. I went around the bend for a while there, and—he had to help bring me back. Not my best time.” He bites his lip, the familiar embrace of shame settling around his neck.

Bitty shudders a breath and hugs Kent fiercely, his body small but warmer than Kent probably deserves. “Parse, I—Lord. Are y-you okay now?” he asks, and when he pulls back, Kent realizes that Bitty has tears brimming in his eyes.

He’s okay. It’d taken a lot of effort to stop reaching for the alcohol when things got hard, effort along with therapy and a lot of time spent talking things out with Jack, but he’s okay. It’s been a long time since he’d drank, even longer since he’d drank so much he’d had trouble functioning. And maybe he’s even happy, now that Jack seems to have finally started letting some of their past go—enough to sleep with Kent on the regular, at least.

Enough to smile at him when Kent walks into the room, eyes no longer shaded with guilt.

“Aww, fuck. Don’t cry.” Kent pats Bitty’s shoulder, brow furrowing. “I’m okay. I had a lot of therapy, and it was fucking rough, but I’m okay.”

“Parse,” Bitty sighs, shaking his head as if his heart is breaking. Kent hopes it isn’t. Enough hearts have been broken because of this mess, and even when they’re sewn back together, it’s never the same.

Maybe it’s Bitty’s continuing tears, or maybe it’s just something in Kent’s face, but Jack takes the silence that lingers after Bitty’s sigh and says, “I guess I’ll leave, then,” his voice like stone.

He stands up. Kent’s chest burns—no, this wasn’t how this was supposed to happen. He should do something, but—he doesn’t know if he can bring himself to stop him.

Zimms has tried to leave him more times than Kent can count—to protect Kent, probably. It’s a wonder that Kent hasn’t yet fully let him go.

And maybe Bitty senses that. Because it’s Bitty, not Kent, that flings a hand out and says, “Zimms—don’t go.”

Jack stares at Kent, at both of them, and Kent looks up at him and wonders what he’s thinking. He wonders if Jack thinks he’s happy, sitting with Bitty like this, but Kent can’t be happy, not with Jack standing there, two seconds away from walking out. “I—” Kent starts, feeling lost. Talking about this sends old, forgotten feelings flying from their shelves in Kent’s head, thoughts he’d never wanted to dissect again, things like ‘ _What if Jack just betrays you another time?’_ and ‘ _Is it really okay to be in love with him if he killed your dad? It shouldn’t be. You’re a fucking traitor.’_

Kent thought he’d made peace with all of his old skeletons.

And maybe he has, but that doesn’t make pulling them out again any easier.

“Why should I stay?” Jack asks, voice low. “I thought—Christ, I thought you’d understand now, Bitty. Why I shouldn’t be around you guys. I’m not—safe.”

 _You are_ , Kent thinks, his defenses finally drawing up against all the intrusive thoughts whizzing around his brain. Jack is the safest person he has. Even though some things aren’t— _can’t_ be forgivable, they can still be forgotten, and since then Jack’s had Kent’s back through thick and thin, through the most grueling missions and even through the days when Kent had broken apart, the cruelty of life battering at his skin. Jack had held him close, had left when Kent had wanted him to leave and had come back when Kent had beckoned again—having Jack around had always been a comfort, not a liability, and somehow Jack never seems to understand that.

And then Bitty opens his mouth, and the truth of Kent’s feelings falls straight from his lips. “You just did what—what you you were instructed to, didn’t you? Protecting your dad? Doesn’t sound like that was really your fault, and anyway—” He cuts off, sighing. “You should stay because—he needs you, I think,” and God, the pointedness of it stings like a bullet through Kent’s heart.

“I—do you?” Jack looks at Kent, eyes searching as if he’s hoping to find something inside Kent, something new to grasp at, even though Kent’s fairly sure he’s already given Jack everything he has.

He can try to give more anyway. For Jack, it’s worth it. “Always,” Kent says softly, holding out his hand.

Jack hesitates, and then he walks back toward him and takes the hand, clambering straight onto the bed and wrapping his arms around both of them. “Sorry,” he says, “I’m so sorry.”

“S’okay,” Kent murmurs, and Bitty nods against his shoulder.

“Sometimes I forget that you’ve forgiven me.” Jack pulls back to look at Kent, eyes swimming with nervousness. “Sometimes I just can’t—believe it.”

Kent finds Jack’s hand, links their fingers together. “We can get through anything, okay?”

Jack smiles at Kent then, nodding, but Bitty shivers in Kent’s lap. “What’s wrong?” Jack asks him.

“Can we really—the mission. I just—I don’t know if I can do it.” Bitty frowns, staring at his lap.

“Bitty?” Jack murmurs, nudging him until Bitty looks up. “You’re not doing this by yourself, okay? We’re a team.”

“He’s right,” Kent nods, gazing at Bitty, trying as best as he can to imbue his tone with confidence. “We’ll be okay.” And he doesn’t know how true that is, but at least it makes Bitty look a little less terrified.

He and Jack—their history is done and over with. Even though they’re going to be targeting the Schooners, there’s no reason for the incessant pang of betrayal to be nagging at his stomach, so Kent carefully boxes the pain away and puts it in the back of his mind, hides it in the mists of his memory where it’d lain peacefully for nearly a year before tonight.

xXx

Three days. They’ve got three days to prepare Bitty, and that means pulling other people in to act as aggressors and working on sims and filling out paperwork and—fuck, Jack’s head is swimming with it all. Early in the morning on day one, he goes and makes sure they’ve got a sim room booked for all three days, and then he shifts the partitions around the knife room so that it combines with the unused room next to it. They’ll need space, he thinks, already calculating how difficult it would be to pull other people in to run a real life scenario.

They make it through day one okay; Bitty has a minor hiccup while they have him attempt to train with Holster—he flinches so hard he trips as he attempts to flee. And goddamnit, Jack should have _thought_ about it, about how Holster was on the mission when they’d picked Bitty up in the first place—but before Jack can work himself into a panic over his mistake, Bitty picks himself up from the floor.

“Again,” Bitty says, his eyes more determined than Jack’s ever seen him. From the sidelines, Kent raises his eyebrows, and Holster looks surprised.

“Yo, dude, if you need a minute it’s no problem,” Holster says, but Bitty shakes his head.

“I’m fine,” he smiles tightly, “Let’s go again.”

Jack watches them, worrying and worrying, until he feels a hand on his shoulder and looks to see Kent behind him. “You’re stressing,” Kent murmurs, letting his hand linger for just a moment before pulling it away. “He’ll be fine. Come spar with me.”

Jack exhales, eyes flicking to Bitty—he’s doing a little better now, holding his ground and working on disarming the prop gun from Holster’s grasp. “Okay.” He nods at Kent. “You gonna grab a knife?”

“Just a dull one,” Kent grins, heading over to the cabinets. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

Jack snorts. “I’d like to see you try.”

Somehow things haven’t changed between he and Kent, even though Bitty now knows about the most rotten thing in their history, even though Jack had dragged the carcass out of the closet and waved it in front of Kent’s face. Kent really _has_ forgiven him, Jack thinks, and his head wants to burst with gratitude.

He doesn’t know what he’d do if he ever lost Kent’s trust again.

When Kent’s readied his knife, he and Jack prepare their stances, counting down simultaneously—and then Jack lunges at him and Kent dodges, weaving the beginnings of their dangerous dance. Unlike with Bitty, Jack can go all out with Kent and so he does, making his best effort to get his hands around Kent’s neck. But Kent is slippery, always has been, dodging and then making jabs with his practice knife that force Jack to give up ground.

And then Kent feints, catching Jack off guard—oh, _shit_ —but he manages to keep his balance and swing around so that Kent’s blade slices right past him, and then Jack’s at a prime angle.

With a twist of his arms, he’s got Kent in a headlock, worming his hand around so that he can squeeze at Kent’s forearm until he drops the knife.

It takes a moment to realize that there’s clapping from the other side of the room. Jack releases Kent slowly, holding his hand out for a shake, and Kent smirks as he takes it. “You’ve still got it, Zimms.” He grasps Jack’s hand for a second too long, and Jack would maybe be worried about Holster noticing except that then Bitty strides over to them, pulling Jack’s attention away.

“That was amazing!” Bitty grins. “Y’all are—wow. I couldn’t tell who was gonna win until the last second!”

“Thanks.” Jack allows him a smile. He feels just a little more relaxed now—he’d forgotten how much the rush of sparring with others helps the tension seep out of him.

Lunch is a quick blur during which they eat as fast as possible. Bitty and Kent’s floormates keep throwing them worried glances, and Jack knows it’s because of Bitty going out for his first time—Lardo, especially, looks more anxious than Jack’s ever seen her.

They’d discussed the mission specs earlier in the morning. It hadn’t been promising. But they’re getting paid a fuck-ton of money to pull off this job, and Jack is certain that the Heads wouldn’t even consider turning it down just because of its difficulty level.

Honestly, Jack might be worried about this mission even without Bitty there. He’s surprised that the Heads had approved Kent going in the first place—it’s not often they allow agents with ties to the target to go on those particular missions.

But Jack isn’t dwelling on that, because right then Bitty laughs at something Kent says from across the table, and when Jack catches Bitty’s eye, Bitty’s smile grows wider, sparkling like the sun on morning dew.

Jack hadn’t anticipated being caught in it, in the way Bitty’s eyes sparkle as he laughs, but Bitty’s sitting right there next to Kent and Jack can’t stop the thought from slipping out— _ah_ , the two people he likes best are happy.

It’s not like he can take it back after he’s already thought it, so instead he resigns himself to watching Bitty as he rolls his eyes and leans in to whisper something to Kent. Bitty hasn’t yet lost the youthfulness in his face; he’s handsome but his jawline isn’t yet sharp, and Jack is startled to remember just how young he is.

And God—someone as kind and thoughtful as Bitty should never have gone to waste like this. Not like he and Kent, always destined for sorrow. No, they’d technically saved Bitty, but had it really been the right thing to do? Jack looks at him and sees a young man whose innocence hasn’t yet been ripped apart—and no matter how Jack shifts his point of view, he and Kent are the ones encouraging Bitty to tear his morals to shreds, to stain his hands with blood just so that they’ll never have to spill his own.

His mind is so full right now, full of worries and fears and lamentations. But for now he pushes it all away so that there’s only he and Kent and Bitty, trapped in their oblong triangle of wishful happiness.

xXx

Bitty might have complained about how damn early they have to wake up in the morning—almost as early as sparring practice with Zimms—except that he hadn’t actually been able to fall asleep in the first place. He’d tossed and turned all night, fear churning his stomach, probably disturbing Parse in the process as he’d tried to get comfortable. But—it’s not like he’d expected anything less. He’d never been able to sleep before the first day of school, and the nights before skating competitions had been even worse. This mission is sort of like those two things combined—a competition, a fight for life, a means to prove himself for the very first time. Hell, he’s surprised he even feels tired for all the jitteriness in his bones.

Halfway through the night, Bitty had rolled over to see Parse blinking at him sleepily. “I should probly—sleep in my room,” Bitty had murmured, despite not having slept there in weeks—but Parse had simply furrowed his brow and tugged him closer under the sheets.

At least there’d been cuddling. It’d been a nice solace after the hectic whirlwind of activity that had only served to make Bitty even more anxious over the past three days—mission briefings with Lardo, an all-out training session with people from other cohorts coming to spar with them, and more virtual simulations than Bitty could count. Bitty’s performance levels had been— _okay_ , he supposes, but the physical altercations still make him flinch more than they should for someone who’s about to go out on their first mission. And now they’re out of time. He can’t train any longer—and he knows that all the last minute training and mission strategy sessions were completely necessary, but part of him wishes he could’ve simply slept through it all. Maybe he would’ve been able to calm himself down.

He hadn’t gotten to have sex last night either. He’d kind of wanted to, because he’d take anything at all that distracts him from the current situation. But Zimms had gone up to his room early, and Parse had looked flat-out exhausted by the end of the night, so Bitty hadn’t even tried to ask.

He feels jittery as his eyes flit around the room in the early hours of the morning, focusing on Parse’s alarm clock, minutes away from ringing. After some deliberation he reaches out and turns it off because he doesn’t think its jarring noise is going to help his skittishness. He’ll wake Parse up himself—in a second, he thinks.

Rolling over, he looks at Parse, chest bare and blankets slipping down his body, mouth slack in sleep. Parse twitches briefly, then settles back into the pillow, and Bitty can’t resist reaching up to touch his face, to slide his hand along the stubbly curve of his jaw.

Parse’s eyes blink open in an instant. “Wha—oh, hey,” he says sleepily, lips spreading into a smile. “What’s up?”

Bitty swallows. “Today’s the day,” he says, imbuing his voice with as much courage as he can muster, smiling dolefully.

Parse reaches over and pats him on the hip. “Sure is,” he yawns, leaning over to kiss Bitty’s cheek in a move that never fails to make his skin burn. “How you feeling, babe?”

Bitty sighs. He’s scared, of course, and so fucking nervous—he doesn’t know how anyone can do this, let alone make it into their whole career. “I’m all right,” he says instead, and Parse gives him a slow nod.

“It’ll be all right. Trust us, ‘kay? We’ve been doing this shit for a long time, ‘specially Zimms,” Parse mumbles. “We’ll get you through it.”

“Okay,” Bitty says. Then he lets himself get pulled in for a hug and listens as hard as he can to the steady beat of Parse’s heart. If worse comes to worst and Bitty gets hurt—or God forbid, killed—Parse will be able to save himself, Bitty thinks. Not that Bitty _wants_ to die, but if he fucks this up—Parse will stay alive, and he’ll still have Zimms to comfort him when the dust settles. That has to be true, Bitty tells himself. And that’s only the absolute worst case scenario; Parse and Zimms have said multiple times now that they’ll protect him. He just has to believe in them, even if he can’t quite believe in himself.

They get up to brush their teeth and shower. It’s earlier than even waking up for sparring practice with Zimms had been, so the hallway is entirely empty as they make their way down to the bathroom. Bitty’s about to step into his preferred shower stall when Parse catches his wrist, eyes crinkling into a smile. “Wanna?” he jerks his head toward his own stall, where the water’s already running.

Bitty lets out a sharp laugh. “Ha—okay.” He bites his lip, stripping off his clothing and joining Parse in the shower. “Like old times, I guess,” he murmurs as he accepts the shampoo from Parse.

Parse grins. “Yeah,” he says, “But I can look at you now.”

That makes Bitty blush so hard he accidentally drops the shampoo, and then they’re both laughing quietly, leaning into each other with a lightness Bitty hasn’t felt since before they’d learned about the mission.

Showering together isn’t quite new, but having Parse wash his back is—it’s soothing in the best way to have Parse’s hands on him like this. After they’re mostly clean, they slip into a warm embrace, hands sliding over cocks in an act that’s more for comfort than for sexual pleasure. Parse kisses Bitty long and firm when they’re done, looking down at him with eyes that this morning are green and fond. “If the mission goes well, we’ll have to make that a tradition,” Parse chuckles, reaching over to shut the water off.

Bitty hands him his towel, taking the other one and rubbing it through his own hair. He needs a haircut—he hasn’t had one in a while. He bets there’s someone who takes care of it around here, though, so he’ll have to remember to ask. “Are y’all superstitious?”

Parse shrugs as he dries himself off. “Somewhat.” He smirks. “Everyone has their little rituals, at least. Zimms always brings peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the road, for instance.”

“What was your thing?” Bitty asks curiously, setting the towel on the bench so he can start pulling his clothes on.

 “Didn’t really have one, I guess,” Parse answers. “I used to listen to a lot of Britney Spears, but that just made me wanna hum it for the rest of the day—not really good when you’re trying to be quiet.” He laughs softly. “Anyway, now I have you, right?” He winks, and Bitty snorts.

“You’re makin’ a lot of assumptions, aren’t ya?” Bitty raises an eyebrow. “What if I were to find a boyfriend?”

Parse looks briefly stunned, which makes Bitty happier than it probably should. “I’d have to find something new then, I guess,” he murmurs, turning away sharply.

“Parse?”

“Yeah?”

“I ain’t leaving y’all anytime soon, if I can’t help it,” Bitty shrugs on his shirt, feeling a little forlorn at the admission—Lord, he’d rather keep sleeping with them and have it mean nothing than risk losing them both. It seems kind of pathetic even to his own ears.

But Parse smiles brightly, leaning over to kiss him. “I’m really fucking glad you’re around, okay? But don’t feel obligated to do— _anything_ with us, or with me. Like—if you do find someone, that’s—fine, but.” He shrugs. “I think it’s safe to say that Zimms and I both like having you around.”

“Yeah—okay.” Bitty smiles back at him, and Parse takes his hand as they leave the bathroom, warm and familiar against his palm.

They meet Zimms down in the lobby as soon as they’ve gathered their bags, which were packed and ready the night before. Bitty grins at the sight of the coffee cup in Zimms’ hand, and Zimms smirks lightly as he hands it over. “You’ll probably be sleeping for most of the car ride anyway, but we usually go over the mission again at the very beginning, so we need you awake for at least that.”

“Aww, you didn’t bring me coffee?” Parse elbows Zimms.

Zimms looks a little bashful. “I—sorry, it was habit from sparring practice with Bitty. I, uh, can bring you coffee next time?”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Parse tells him. But Bitty offers him a sip of his coffee as they make their way out past the training center, and Parse’s expression warms as he accepts it.

Bitty’s never been out on these trails before, so as he and Parse pass the cup of coffee back and forth, Zimms narrates their walk. “That’s an administrative office,” he inclines his head toward a small, nondescript building. “Technically Shitty’s office is over there, but he never uses it. Says he likes the people out in the training center better.”

“I don’t blame him,” Parse interjects with a grin. “We’re definitely more attractive.”

Zimms snorts, cutting diagonally across the path to shove Parse with his shoulder. Parse laughs and tries to retaliate, but Zimms dodges out of the way before he can get a hit in, smirking. “Anyway.” Zimms looks over his shoulder at Bitty, who’d fallen behind in an attempt to get out of the way of their roughhousing. “That’s the explosives building.” He points to a large warehouse down one pathway, separated from them by a large field. “We’ve largely done away with explosives training because they’re too dangerous to mess with in the main training center, but there are still a few older agents who like going out there and practicing.”

Bitty nods, wide-eyed. “Sounds scary.”

“There’s all sorts of regulations they have to follow.” Zimms shrugs. “When done properly, it’s fairly safe, but again—it’s a little risky for us to be training new agents to do it. Oh—here we are,” Zimms directs them down a side path, and Bitty is soon able to see a large, flat building. “This is the parking garage.”

Parse strides ahead, setting one of his bags down to unlock the door, and Bitty gasps when they make their way inside. “Holy hell—how much money do y’all _have_?”

“Enough.” Parse grins cheekily, glancing over the rows and rows of cars sitting in the warehouse-like building. “You’ll get your first payment after this mission, actually. The Aces take a chunk of that to benefit the facility as a whole, but that still leads a huge cut for us—especially as part of the combat team. Riskier jobs and all.” He shrugs. “Zimms is probably a millionaire by now.”

Bitty stares at both of them. “Seriously?”

“Parse is too,” Zimms mumbles modestly, pulling out a set of car keys.

“Huh—yeah, you’re probably right.” Parse makes a pleased face. “People will pay a fuck ton to have us get rid of targets. Not that there’s much to do with the money around here, but a lot of times retirees will go live at resorts and shit if they don’t stick around.”

Bitty gapes at him. “That’s—hell, that’s almost as ridiculous as sports salaries. Gosh.” He shakes his head, following Zimms and Parse to a medium-sized, nondescript SUV and nodding his thanks to Parse when he opens the trunk.

They stow their bags inside the car. Then Zimms takes the wheel and Parse sits shotgun, leaving Bitty to curl up with his half-empty cup of coffee in the backseat. “This is Zimms’ car, by the way,” Parse shoots over his shoulder. “I told him he should’ve gotten a Ferrari or something, but he said this was way more functional.” He grins.

“I mean, it _is_ ,” Zimms furrows his brow.

Parse laughs and flicks him in the shoulder. Then, Zimms reaches into the small bag he’d brought with him and pulls out what looks like—“Is that—a cell phone?” Bitty’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Oh, right!” Parse looks back at him again. “Yeah, this is probably too recent to be in the version of the manual I gave you, but Chowder figured out a safer way to encrypt certain info across signals. Obviously you shouldn’t use one of ’em to send anything too classified if you don’t have to, but it’s helpful in a pinch, and for keeping contact with headquarters too.”

“Also helps to keep up appearances,” Zimms mumbles, tapping at the phone, and Bitty watches as he pulls up the GPS. “It looks funny if you don’t have one.”

“Eight fuckin’ hours,” Parse whistles, peering over at the screen in Zimms’ hand, and Bitty doesn’t get a clear view of where they are but either way, that’s a lot of time to spend driving. “Gonna be a long one. Want me to switch off halfway?”

“Please.” Zimms smiles at him, and then Parse smiles back, and Bitty’s heart stutters as he watches them get caught up in the moment. It’s only a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity that Parse and Zimms’ eyes are locked, and it’s not until they both look away that Bitty realizes he’d expected them to kiss.

But then Zimms starts the car and the moment dissolves, a phantom brush of lips that Bitty hadn’t even been a part of. He sits back in his seat and sips his coffee and thinks yet again about what it means that he’s not really jealous of their relationship.

Maybe he should be jealous. After all, he is in love with Parse, falling faster every day on a course that’s practically bound for destruction. But—but seeing Parse and Zimms interact feels so familiar that it’s almost like home. And for once, Bitty thinks that Parse’s happiness isn’t the only reason that he’d like them to stay together.

Bitty yawns a moment later, and Parse flashes him a grin, making a comment about Bitty needing to drink his coffee. Just for a second, Bitty lets himself stare at that smile, one that’s just for him—for _Bitty_ , because no matter what, Parse had said he wants him around. “I am, shush,” Bitty says once that second is broken, but if anything Parse’s smile shifts into a smirk—and maybe it shouldn’t be sexy, but Bitty’s too far gone to really care about what should be attractive at this point. Parse is attractive, all of him, and Bitty wishes he could say how perfect Parse is without it sounding like he’s head-over-heels for him—which, he is, but he doesn’t plan on Parse or Zimms ever finding out about that.

Zimms merges onto the highway, carefully ticking on his turn signal before he shifts into the lane. “We should go over the last-minute details before the drive gets too tedious,” Zimms talks, words overriding the tinny voice of the GPS telling them that they’re “on the fastest route to your destination.”

“Yeah, sounds good.” Parse nods. “Wanna recap what you know, Bits? ’S good practice.”

“Sure,” Bitty agrees, settling back in his seat and wrestling all the thoughts flying around in his brain into a semblance of order. “Okay, so the client—and we don’t find out who they are, right?” Bitty asks, and Zimms grunts in assent. “Anyway, the client hired us to take out the remaining high-up members of the Schooners, because there’s been rumors that they’re trying to recruit new members and re-form the organization. There are three of them, and two of them live together—right?”

“You’ve got it.” Zimms nods. “Don’t worry so much about second-guessing yourself, eh? We’ve got eight hours to get your story straight.”

Bitty snorts. “God forbid it takes that long.”

Laughing, Parse smirks. “You never know. Missions get Zimms hot.”

“They do _not_.” Zimms furrows his brow, nonetheless not taking his eyes off of the road. “Parse is full of shit, don’t listen to him.”

“I’ve kinda figured that out by now.” Bitty grins ruefully.

“Oh, come on.” Parse twists in his seat. “You love me. Admit it.”

 _Lord_.

Bitty is very, very glad it’s still dark out because it means Parse can’t see the flush creeping hotly up his cheekbones. “Well,” Bitty draws the word out, “I guess you’re tolerable. It’s a good thing we’re friends,” he covers, and hell, he’s half-convinced that Parse is going to be able to tell how he feels just from the tone of his voice.

But Parse doesn’t seem to notice, smirking cockily. “Not what you were saying in the shower this morning.”

And Bitty’s still flushing, but at least they’re not talking about _love_ anymore, good God.

“What was he saying in the shower this morning?” Zimms perks up.

“I wasn’t _saying_ much of anything,” Bitty retorts.

Parse chuckles, and Zimms smirks at Bitty through the rear-view mirror. “Oh?”

“ _Zimms._ He’s not gonna give you deets,” Parse snorts.

“You’ve done it every time before though, eh?” Zimms points out.

“Shh,” Parse says with a groan, swatting him in the shoulder. “Later. We don’t have time to stop and have sex right now anyway, and you know where these kinds of conversations lead.”

“Well, we could modify the mission timing. We _did_ leave time for a long nap.” Zimms pretends to consider, and Kent snorts. “Anyway—we weren’t finished going over the mission details, I think. Bitty?” he prompts, and Bitty nods and opens his mouth to continue.

xXx

The sun is high in the sky by the time they reach their destination, and Bitty slides out of the car, yawning and stretching his arms. They’re in front of a medium-sized house, entirely unremarkable in its exterior and well-hidden from its neighbors by the thick swathe of trees that lines the yard. “This is the safe house?”

“Mhmm,” Parse nods. “They had this place set up for—well, for the last time they scouted against the Schooners,” he says, his voice sounding flat.

And God, this has to be hard for him—Bitty can’t even imagine. “This is supposed to be a pretty fast mission, right? So we won’t have to stay here for long.” He tries to smile reassuringly.

Parse’s face softens. “Yeah, you’re right.” He nods, handing Bitty his bag from the trunk. “Hey, Zimms—you been here before?”

“No,” Zimms shakes his head, taking his own duffel out of the car before slamming the trunk shut. “I was, uh. Back at headquarters the whole time.”

Parse nods solemnly. “You know—if you need to—for the mission.” He sighs, “You can—talk about stuff from back then? It’s not gonna hurt as much as it used to, I think. And the details might be important.”

Zimms’ lips twist as he nods. “Honestly, I don’t know much more about it than you do. Less, maybe. But—thanks, Parse.”

“No problem,” Parse replies, a soft smirk flitting across his face.

They head into the house, which Bitty notes is surprisingly clean, if blandly furnished. “There’s a cleaning person who comes in on weekends,” Zimms explains. “They’ve been instructed not to come when the house is in use, but it’s mid-week anyway. We won’t even have to worry about that.”

Bitty looks around at the blank, white walls and the cramped kitchen and resists the urge to shudder—there’s nothing homey about the place. He’s glad they don’t have to stay there long.

“Looks like the master bedroom’s down here,” Kent observes, peeking into one of the doors. “Think we’ll need to use any of the bedrooms upstairs? The bed looks like it’s a king.”

“I dunno,” Zimms answers. “Depends on Bitty—you want your own bed?”

“Ah, no thank you.” Bitty flushes.

Parse grins. “Good. We can cuddle.” He winks, and Bitty feels a pleasant flash of warmth spread in his cheeks.

Zimms stifles a yawn in his fist. “I’m going to need to sleep for a while before we really get going,” he tells them. “Mind looking over the surveillance tapes again, if you guys stay up?”

“Sure,” Parse nods. “There should be copies on my cell, right?”

“Yep. Check the storage on the micro-SD card,” Zimms tells him, aiming a smile at Bitty as he shuffles toward the bedroom and closes the door.

Parse opens up one of his duffel bags, pulling out a phone that looks fairly similar to the one Zimms had been using. “You’ve got a phone too, by the way,” he tells Bitty as he turns it on. “But—we probably won’t give it to you until we’re ready to go out. Sorry,” he says, looking sheepish.

“It’s okay!” Bitty waves his hand back and forth, even as his heart sinks. “I don’t even need one, really.”

“It’s not that we don’t trust you,” Parse adds hurriedly, and that makes Bitty feel a little bit better. “It’s just that they can’t pin stuff on you as easily if you don’t have access to things that you could get in trouble with. But like—you’ll be fine. Zimms and I both know that you know better than to try and call your parents or something like that.”

Bitty honestly hadn’t even thought about it. “I—I don’t remember their numbers,” he realizes, blinking. He’d known them once, back before he’d had his first cell phone, but he hadn’t had much of a need for the knowledge once he’d reached high school. “So,” he shrugs, “I couldn’t do that anyway.”

Parse nods solemnly, leaning over and putting an arm around his shoulders. They stand there for a moment, and Bitty is glad for the warmth of Parse’s touch—he tries not to think much about it anymore, but every day he feels further and further removed from ‘Eric’, from the boy he’d used to be. That boy had parents who loved him and a pet dog, had gotten locked in the janitor’s closet overnight when he was in middle school, had distant friends and relatives who knew nothing about him and ice skating lessons with one of the best instructors in his state. Eric was outgoing, sure, but he was also closeted and eager to prove himself, and even at the best of the times he’d felt rather timid about anything to do with _really_ expressing himself.

Bitty is still some of those things, but—but he feels like he’s more, now. More confident, at the very least, and more sure of his sexuality, among other things.

And now he’s stepping back out in the world for the first time since his kidnapping. He’s joined the ranks of those who’d locked him away, and he might even have to hurt someone tonight, even though he hopes against it with every fiber of his being.

Bitty shivers.

Parse notices, of course, and sighs softly. He presses a kiss to Bitty’s cheek and motions toward the beige, perfunctory-looking couch. “C’mere. Let’s watch the tapes.”

“Okay,” Bitty says, but he tilts his head up and gives Parse a real kiss before they sit down.

Bitty’s seen glimpses of the surveillance recordings before, but he hasn’t yet watched all of them. They’re clips taken from the front desk of an apartment building, the one where two of the targets live, and all of them feature a bored looking night watch security guard. He’s young, brunet, and is thumbing idly through his phone on all of the videos they have where he’s not actually speaking with guests.

“I can’t believe we got this fucking lucky,” Parse mutters, shaking his head. “I guess this is why we didn’t go with a female team to begin with.”

Bitty nods, watching as the guard leans over the desk to chat with one of the male residents—and they’re definitely flirting, there’s no doubt about it. _Gosh_.

“I guess I shouldn’t have too hard of a time distracting him, right?” Bitty asks nervously.

“Nah, I don’t think so. You’re hot.” Parse waggles his eyebrows, and Bitty giggles. But slowly, Parse’s expression turns pensive. “Hey—you’re sure you don’t mind doing that part?”

Bitty bites his lip, nodding. “It sounds better than—what y’all are gonna be doing, so.”

Parse’s lips twist. “Yeah, but. You were worried about it before.” He shrugs. “I just don’t wanna force you to do something you don’t want to do.”

Bitty thinks about it, then shakes his head. “I think I’m all right with it now.” He gives Parse a small smile. “I mean, I—um. I’ve had sex now? So it’s not as weird?”

Parse nods contemplatively. “And you don’t _have_ to have sex with him if you can help it. All we need is a diversion.”

“Right,” Bitty says, mulling it over. His job for this portion of the mission is fairly simple: seduce the security guard so that Parse and Zimms can get upstairs and back without being noticed. Privately, Bitty thinks that getting the timing right for their return is going to be the hardest part—he doesn’t know for sure if he’ll be able to convince the guard to actually leave his station, nor for how long. It speaks to how different he feels about himself nowadays that he’d barely thought to worry about having to sleep with the man—he’s more worried about Parse and Zimms being safe. “There are a couple times where he gets up for a while, right?”

“Mhmm.” Parse nods, hitting the back button on the video that’s playing and scrolling through the thumbnails until he finds the clip he’s looking for. He taps it, and Bitty watches as half a minute later, a man walks up to the desk and starts chatting with the guard. Bitty’s seen this clip before, but it won’t hurt to watch it again—it’s one of the only handful they have where the guard actually leaves the desk for something or another.

The guard’s face slowly spreads into a smirk as he speaks with the other man. He’s not unattractive, Bitty thinks, but it’s hard to tell on the pixel-y screen, and at any rate—well, he’s no Parse, that’s for sure. The two keep chatting, leaning in almost imperceptibly toward each other. It’s only a few minutes before the guard peers furtively around the room, checks his watch, and then gestures for the other man to follow him off-screen.

Bitty lets out a small sigh, letting his head drop sideways onto Parse’s shoulder. “What if they’re not actually going to have sex?”

“Hmm. That’s possible,” Parse allows, pushing back his cowlick. “But they were definitely flirting. And that leads in a pretty obvious direction, you know,” he adds with a smirk. “I don’t think you’ll be having any problems.”

“If you say so,” Bitty replies wryly. And really, there are so many ways this can go horribly wrong, ways he’s thought about over and over until he feels queasy—but he’s so tired. He’s tired of worrying, and right now he gets to sit with Parse and watch videos and maybe even cuddle a little—for now, he’s safe, and he’s going to try his damned best to enjoy it.

He shifts a little closer to Parse, who takes the hint and slips his arm around Bitty’s shoulders, shifting the phone so that it’s centered between them. Bitty dutifully watches the screen for as long as he can, eventually letting Parse’s warmth and the grainy clips lull him into a doze.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter involves a description of assault, as well as the non-explicit killing of a few minor characters.
> 
> This chapter also ends on a very large cliffhanger, so if you're not a fan of those, I would recommend waiting to read this one until the next one comes out! I'll try to get it edited and posted as soon as I can with school and whatnot <3
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone for continuing to read! It means a lot!!!

Bitty wakes to the feel of Parse nudging his arm. He rubs his eyes, yawning, and notes that they’ve somehow ended up horizontal on the couch—which is absolutely fine, considering he’s just gotten the best sleep he’s had in days.

“You two ready?” Zimms asks, and Bitty cranes his neck up to see him standing over them, silhouetted against the dusky sky that shows through one of the windows. He’s dressed casually in a navy shirt and a pair of black pants. There’s nothing particularly out of the ordinary about his outfit, but Bitty suspects he’d chosen his clothes carefully so that his range of movement isn’t hindered, and he’d bet that he has some sort of weapon concealed on him as well.

“Shit, sorry, Zimms,” Parse mumbles as they sit up. “Just need a sec to get dressed.”

“It’s okay,” Zimms allows, eyes flitting to the watch on his wrist. “We’ve got time.”

Bitty follows Parse into the bedroom, and they hastily swap out their outfits, Parse for a pair of loose cargo pants and a polo and Bitty for a black t-shirt and a pair of shorts. They brush their teeth side-by-side in the bathroom, and then Parse taps him on the shoulder, holding out a couple of condoms. Bitty takes them wordlessly. He shoves them in his pocket, trying not to think about what they might mean for tonight.

His heart is already thrumming with nervousness as they meet Zimms in the entryway. Zimms hands them both apples, and Bitty isn’t too sure of his stomach but he starts eating it anyway as they leave the house and slide into the car—it’d be awful if he were to ruin something with his stomach grumbling. So he stares at his lap and eats his apple, head so full of worrying that it’s making him feel faint.

“Here you go,” Parse says as Zimms starts the car, and Bitty looks up to see that Parse is holding a phone toward him.

“Oh—thanks.” Bitty blinks, taking it. It feels foreign in his hands, even though it’s not that different from his old one—but this one isn’t _his_. He almost wants to hand it back for fear that just touching it will get him in trouble—or worse, that he’ll be tempted to break the rules somehow if he turns it on.

“Set a passcode for it,” Parse instructs, “Something simple. You’ve got four contacts in there. Z is Zimms, P is me, L is Lardo for if you need to communicate something and you think both of us are indisposed, and C is Chowder, for if you have any technological problems—which you shouldn’t on this particular mission, but you never know. Mistyping the password eight times will wipe the phone entirely, so if you’re in a spot that you don’t think you’ll be able to get out of—well, hopefully that won’t happen, but if you have time then either erase the data or smash the phone. It’ll make it harder for anyone to trace us.”

Bitty nods, paying rapt attention even as a pit forms in his gut at the thought of the last scenario. “Should I put it on silent?” he asks, biting his lip as he presses the power button.

“Mm, leave it on vibrate. Right?” Parse looks to Zimms, who nods.

“Unless something goes wrong, we’ll text you when we’re finished upstairs,” Zimms tells Bitty. “You might want to put it on silent later if we need to sneak around, but since you’re acting as a distractor, it won’t be dangerous for people to hear you.

“Mkay,” Bitty intones, fiddling with the settings. Parse and Zimms start talking about their plans for upstairs— _for disposing of the first two targets_ , Bitty thinks, a lump of fear and nebulous worry lodged firmly in his throat. He should really listen, but the fear is clogging his ears too, dampening his senses until all he can focus on is the screen in front of him, the phone solid in his sweaty palms.

It feels like all too soon that they’re pulling up to a nondescript apartment building. Zimms parks in a spot that’s out of the way, not too close to any of the streetlights that line the sidewalk, and Bitty unbuckles with shaky hands. He takes a deep breath, willing himself to reach for the door handle, but he feels frozen in place, paralyzed by the insidious terror swirling through his body.

People are going to die tonight. Bitty has to lie, has to sleep with a security guard and sneak around everywhere just so people can die at the hands of his friends. _God_.

“All right, Bitty?” Zimms asks, and Bitty looks up to see that both Zimms and Parse are looking back at him with worry in their eyes.

“Sorry—I’m kinda shaken,” he admits, trying his best to steady his breathing.

“I was scared before my first mission too, you know,” Zimms tells him. “And all I was doing was running surveillance.”

“He was also, you know, eight years old,” Parse says, smirking. “He started training as a kid. That’s where he got his nickname, you know. People called him ‘Zooms,’ because he would ran all over the place, except he couldn’t say it right and then it came out as ‘Zimms’ inste—ow!” Zimms swats him in the arm, and Parse grimaces. “Hey!”

“I was trying to make him feel better,” Zimms grumbles. “I wish dad had never told you that story.” He looks so sullen that Bitty has to laugh.

Suddenly, he can move again—he’s still scared, but their silliness had managed to take the edge off of it. “I should go in before I can, um, overthink this too much.” Bitty smiles ruefully. “Wish me luck?”

“Of course.” Parse grins at him, holding out his fist. Bitty reaches up and knocks it with his own knuckles, and when Zimms holds his hand out, Bitty grins softly and gives him a fist bump as well.

“I didn’t know you did those!” Bitty raises his eyebrows appreciatively.

“Ha—you gotta work for them,” Zimms smiles. “And—really, you’ve earned it, Bitty.”

“Seriously.” Parse nods. “You’ve been kicking ass in training. You can do this.”

“I—wow, thanks.” Bitty bites his lip. “That really—thank you. I—Lord, okay. Going now.”

Parse gives him a thumbs up. Bitty opens the door.

The walk to the front door of the building feels way longer than it should. Bitty rehearses his story as thoroughly as he can in the time he has left—he’s there to meet a friend, but his friend forgot to tell him which apartment number and Bitty’s waiting for a text back, and—well, he can only hope the conversation writes itself from there.

He walks through the sliding glass doors, the blast of air conditioning a sudden shock on his skin. He turns toward the front desk, and there’s the guard, just as they’d expected—at least that’s going for him. The guard looks up as Bitty approaches. He’s more attractive in person, Bitty’s relieved to realize, all dark hair and dark eyes. The desk also bears a nameplate—his name is Tom, apparently.

“Can I help you?” Tom asks, setting his phone down on the desk.

Heart beating wildly, Bitty tries his best to look casual. “I was meeting up with a friend of mine, but he hasn’t texted me his apartment number yet.” He makes an unamused face.

“No worries, dude. I can find out for you.” Tom sits up, reaching for a binder that’s sitting on the desk—and oh gosh.

Bitty and Parse had scoped out the residents beforehand, picking someone who looked around college-age for Bitty to talk about, but they’d meant it be a last resort because “unnecessary associations aren’t good for the mission,” according to Zimms. And naming a resident of the building would definitely be an unnecessary association, so Bitty should probably stall lest the guard try and contact Bitty’s “friend”—and everything is going so _fast_ , God, so he opens his mouth and says the first thing he can think of.

“Y-you’re hot.”

Tom looks up at him, hand on the binder. “Sorry?”

Bitty can feel every inch of his face turn red. “N-never mind! I mean! You are, but— _Lord_ , okay, just never let me talk again.” He groans, resisting the urge to hide his face in his hands.

Slowly, Tom’s face spreads into a grin. He has dimples. “Well, you’re cute, aren’t you?”

Mortified, Bitty sighs. “I was supposed to—I mean, I meant to like, seduce you with my pie-making skills or something,” he admits, because it seems like the honesty is actually gaining him ground. “I guess that’s all down the drain now though, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Tom says, and then he looks Bitty up and down, seeming more curious than anything. “You look young.”

“Twenty,” Bitty lies, hoping the flush on his face doesn’t give him away—he can’t risk his age being an obstacle here. “People always say I look young for my age.”

“It’s all good, man.” Tom nods, and then he smirks. “Pie-making, huh? Think you can make me one?”

“Yes!” Bitty says quickly—too quickly. “I mean—um, yeah, sure.” He shrugs, trying to seem calmer than he really is. “But—do you have ingredients?”

“Who knows?” Tom arches a brow, grin widening. “Is your friend gonna get annoyed if you come check with me?”

“Nah—he can wait.” Bitty shakes his head, secretly thrilled. “I’ll just tell him that I got held up.” He feels elated in a way that wants to make him jittery, partly because of the absurdity of the metaphor but mostly because he can’t believe this actually _worked_.

There’s a small part of him—the part that resents whatever fate that put him in Aces in the first place—that wonders whether it would’ve been this easy to meet guys if he’d actually gone to college. If he could’ve just walked up to someone and told them they were hot, could’ve gotten an immediate invitation for sex right afterwards—gosh, if he’d known, life might’ve looked a lot less intimidating. But then, he rationalizes, he never could’ve been this straightforward on his own, so it’s a moot point anyway.

Nonetheless, his pulse is racing in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant as he follows Tom to one of the first-floor apartments, shooting a quick text to Parse along the way that says, ‘ _He’s distracted!_ _You should be good!_ ’

Then Tom unlocks the door, flicking the light switch on, and Bitty gets a glimpse of a dumpy-looking couch and a small TV before Tom is crowding him into the wall and kissing him.

It’s—not bad. He tastes like coffee, and the kissing isn’t awful, but Bitty has to focus harder than he should to really feel like he’s enjoying himself. Tom pulls back, lips slick, and grins. “This is probably gonna have to be a fast pie, yeah? Shouldn’t be away from the front desk for _too_ long.”

“Okay,” Bitty says, biting back a laugh. “Only if you have the ingredients, though. Can’t do it without butter.”

“Hmm.” Tom raises an eyebrow, trailing a hand over Bitty’s shoulder. “You actually bake, don’t you? You weren’t joking.”

“Well—yeah?” Bitty shrugs. “It’s a hobby. In fact—” he grins, wriggling his way out from Tom’s grasp and walking farther into the room toward the apartment’s small hallway. And ah—there’s the kitchen, so he walks in, eyes flicking around the dirty dishes in the sink and the leftover pans on the stove. “Got any flour?” he calls behind him.

“Uhh,” Tom says, raising a confused eyebrow as he walks in behind him. “I think? Maybe? Might be up here.” He reaches up and opens one of the high cabinets, pulling down an unopened package. “I don’t use it for anything, so.”

“Good. Sugar?” Bitty takes it, heading over to the cleanest-looking counter and plopping the flour down. “And a bowl?”

Tom laughs. “You really _weren’t_ joking,” he mutters, bringing Bitty a metal mixing bowl and retrieving a half-used bag of sugar from next to the coffee machine.

“Nope!” Bitty says brightly, feeling strangely wired. Maybe—maybe he won’t really have to sleep with Tom, if he can just keep going like this. “You have butter?”

“Sure.” Tom opens the fridge. “How much?”

“A stick should be fine!”

Bitty takes a deep breath and lets his hands go to work.

Half an hour later, Tom leans against the counter with permanently raised brows as Bitty slides a pie into the oven, complete with the apples Tom had procured from the fridge. “How long does that take to bake?” Tom asks him, seeming grudgingly impressed.

“Oh, I’d start checking it at about an hour or so.” Bitty closes the oven door, reaching over to set the timer.

“Good,” Tom purrs, and suddenly he’s pressing Bitty up against the counter, his face six inches away from Bitty’s own. “More than enough time.”

“I-I—right,“ Bitty stammers, and then he sighs a little bit as Tom kisses him, pulling back after a second. “I thought—shouldn’t you, um, go back to your job? Are you gonna get in trouble?”

“No one cares.” Tom shrugs, boxing him in against the counter with his arms. “The landlord’s not supposed to come through tonight, and no one looks at those tapes. I’ll be fine.” He flashes a grin.

_No one looks at those tapes. Ha._ “Well, um. That’s—great!” Bitty says, flushing as Tom leans in again.

They kiss for a good minute, Bitty consciously making an effort to touch him, to slide his hands up Tom’s back. It’s nice, but—it’s not Parse. It’s not Zimms either, for that matter, but—it’s for the mission. He can do this. It’s _fine_.

“What?” Tom mumbles, pulling slightly away. “Having second thoughts?”

“I—n-no! It’s fine!” Bitty says, flushing brightly. He leans up to kiss him again, but Tom puts a hand on his chest, stopping him.

“You sure?” Tom asks. “You’re not hard,” he points out, punctuating it with a small press of his hips, and oh, fuck. Tom _is_ hard and Bitty—isn’t.

“It just, um—takes time?” he says, even though it generally doesn’t—at least, not in the sexual encounters he’s had so far. Lord, he didn’t think this would be so _difficult_.

“Oh, all right.” Tom nods. “Just wanted to make sure you were into it.” Then he grins again, sliding his hand down Bitty’s chest, and Bitty’s breath hitches.

Tom’s hand slides lower, lower, and this is happening, he’s going to do this—and then Bitty’s phone buzzes and he instinctively flinches. “Sorry!” he blurts out, “That’s probably—my friend, uhh, I should? Check that?”

“Hold up.” Tom furrows his brow, stepping away as Bitty reaches for his pocket. “Your friend—it’s not your _boyfriend_ , is it? Cuz that’s not cool, man.”

“No! I mean—he’s not!” Bitty shakes his head quickly.

Tom still looks skeptical, frown severe on his face. “Right,” he says sharply.

And Bitty doesn’t _want_ Tom to be mad, so he throws out the only thing he can think of to convince him otherwise—the truth. “But I wish—I wish he was,” he admits, sighing. “He doesn’t—have feelings for me.”

“Oh.” Tom’s face softens in understanding. “I—yeah, sorry for making assumptions. That fucking sucks, dude.”

“It’s all right,” Bitty tells him, fingers gripping the hem of his t-shirt.

Tom steps back to lean against the opposite counter. “You should answer.”

Bitty blinks at him. “Huh?”

“The text.” Tom nods down at Bitty’s phone, still clutched tightly in his hand.

“Oh! Right,” Bitty types in his password, tapping at the notification to reveal a single message from Parse—‘ _We’re done. Is the coast clear?_ ’ Bitty sends a ‘ _yes, hurry_ ’ and bites his lip—fuck, now he’s going to have to make excuses to get out of here, and it’s going to be awkward, and—

“You have to leave, don’t you?” Tom interrupts Bitty’s spiral of worry.

“Yeah. Sorry.” Bitty sighs apologetically, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

“It’s fine.” Tom waves it off as they start walking back into the living room. “Hey—for the record, you seem like a nice dude. It’s a shame your friend’s not into you.”

“I—thanks. There’s not much I can do about it, I guess,” Bitty murmurs, sparing him a small smile. He hopes he’s not leaving too many hard feelings behind, tries not to think of the fact that Tom might lose his job for this depending on when the murders are discovered.

“Still sucks.” Tom shrugs. “Mind seeing yourself out? I’m gonna go jerk off.” He grins wryly.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Bitty ducks his head, chuckling. “Don’t forget about the pie?”

“Right.” Tom laughs. “Hey, at least I got homemade food out of this.”

“Well, I sure hope it tastes good.” Bitty puts his hand on the door handle.

Tom lifts a hand up and waves goodbye. “I’m sure it will.”

Bitty’s pulse is still thudding in his ears as he slips into the lobby. No one’s around, thankfully, and he’s able to reach the car without incident, heartbeat finally slowing. Zimms and Parse are already there, and when Bitty opens the door he’s surprised to see Parse sitting in the back. Neither of them look worse for the wear despite what Bitty knows they’ve just done. “Uh—should I sit in the front?” Bitty blinks at Parse.

“Nah, come keep me company.” Parse beckons with a small smile, and Bitty nods and climbs in to join him. After some deliberation, he sits in the middle seat so that he can be right next to Parse, and Parse gives him a grateful look and slips his arm around him.

“You good, Bitty?” Zimms asks, looking over his shoulder.

“Yep!” Bitty nods. “Are you guys, um, okay?” he asks tentatively.

Parse pulls him a little closer. “We’re okay,” he says, and Zimms nods in agreement. “It’s always—hard, but. We’re fine.”

“Okay.” Bitty nods, and then he pointedly pushes the topic out of his mind. He’s got bigger things to worry about—they’re heading straight toward the second half of the mission, and this time, Bitty’s going to have to be part of the assault team.

“Hey,” Parse says as Zimms shifts the car into gear, and when Bitty turns to look, Parse kisses him, resting his hand on the side of Bitty’s face.

“Hey,” Bitty chuckles breathily as the kiss breaks.

Parse smirks at him. “Heh. You taste different.”

“ _Parse!_ ” Bitty blushes hotly, hiding his face in Parse’s shoulder.

“Just an observation.” Parse pats his back, and Bitty can hear Zimms chuckling from up front.

“Y’all—it was nothing,” Bitty stresses, sitting back up to see Parse’s smirk only growing wider. “ _Really_. All we did was make out.”

“Oh? How’d you keep him occupied for that long, then?” Parse asks, amusement twinkling in his eyes, and Bitty gives him a look. “What? I’m curious!”

“I, um. Made him a pie?” Bitty tells him, and both Parse and Zimms start laughing.

“Holy shit, you deflected sex with _pie_.” Parse ruffles his hair. “I told ya baking counted as a special skill,” he says, looking to Zimms.

“Fine, fine,” Zimms concedes, snorting. “Nice, Bitty. That’s a new one.”

“Y’all stop making fun of me.” Bitty flushes, but Parse shakes his head.

“We’re not, Itty Bitty. You used your skills to get yourself out of a tricky situation. That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do.” Parse squeezes his shoulder with a grin, and Bitty feels a little better about what at the time had seemed like a bizarre mess.

“Um, Itty Bitty?” he repeats, grinning.

Parse shrugs. “Yeah,” he chuckles, “I dunno. It sounded nice in my head.”

“I don’t mind,” Bitty tells him, heart beating slow and steady and sure. Parse smiles then, leaning over to kiss him again, wrapping him up with warm arms and sliding a hand firmly in his hair. “Mm,” Bitty sighs, blinking dizzily at him, “Where’s this coming from?”

“Parse gets possessive.” Zimms snorts from up front.

Parse pouts. “I do _not_. I just—wanted to kiss him.”

“Mhmm.” Zimms raises an eyebrow, glancing back at them as they reach a stoplight. “Just a coincidence. Right.”

“Shut up,” Parse grumbles, and a laugh bubbles its way out of Bitty’s chest as Parse kisses him on the cheek. Bitty slumps sideways, resting his head on Parse’s shoulder, and Parse idly strokes his arm as Bitty lets out a content sigh. “Nervous?” Parse asks him quietly.

“A little,” Bitty says. “Tryin’ not to think about it.”

“You’ll be all right. Promise,” Parse murmurs. “We’ve got your back, okay?”

“I—okay,” Bitty breathes a smile. And then he lets Parse hold him, shifting over as far as he can in his seatbelt so he can press his face into Parse’s neck. “Thanks—for this.”

“Of course.” Parse squeezes him closer. “What else am I here for?”

“Lots of things.” Bitty laughs. “But—this is nice. Real nice.”

Parse nods in response, and it’s quiet for a moment before Zimms says, “Huh.”

“What?” Bitty mumbles, looking up, but Zimms shakes his head.

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” Zimms waves it off, so Bitty dismisses it, resting against Parse and trying his best to staunch the flow of fear that’s only growing stronger in his veins.

xXx

They park in the dark curve of cul-de-sac of a small neighborhood, where the houses are sparse and a single streetlight illuminates the end of the road. Bitty steps out of the car, wearing the black long-sleeved shirt he’d changed into moments ago and shivering at the slight chill that’s set in the night air. He feels like he wants to throw up—but no, he can’t give into the weakness, not now when both Parse and Zimms are relying on him, no matter how much he just wants to climb back into the car and sleep for as long as he can.

“Make sure you don’t make too much noise—we don’t want to wake anyone. Phone on silent?” Parse asks him quietly, and Bitty nods but double-checks it just in case. Parse is holding a familiar briefcase, one that Bitty kind of wants to flinch at the sight of—but no, it’s not meant for him anymore.

He’s not the one who’s going to die tonight, thank _God_.

“Bitty,” Zimms whispers, catching his attention, and Bitty turns to see him coming around the side of the car with a sheathed knife in hand. “This is yours.” He holds it out.

“Thanks.” Bitty takes it, surprised that his hand doesn’t shake, and attaches it to his belt. He’d used this knife during the last couple practices, and he’s already familiar with the weight of the blade that lies in its sheath. He hopes against hope that he won’t have to use it.

“Think we should give him a syringe?” Parse murmurs to Zimms, and Bitty’s pulse races for a brief moment before he realizes that of course they’re not going to use the syringe on _him_.

Zimms simply nods and reaches into his bag, handing Bitty a capped needle. “Anesthetic. On the off-chance you need to sedate the target—and if it comes to that, you should be in a good enough position to take them out entirely, but anyway—don’t lose it.” His gaze is sharp.

Bitty nods. “I won’t.”

This part of the operation is more dangerous, or so Zimms had said earlier. Their final target is the ringleader of the Schooners uprising, and if they get caught at this stage, there’s no telling what will happen—at best, the target might flee. At worst, he might call for help of some sort before they can escape, and then they could be stuck fighting for their lives—and Lord, Bitty’s trying as best as he can not to worry about that particular outcome.

“Ready?” Parse whispers, closing the trunk with a light thump.

“Ready,” Zimms responds. Bitty just nods, too nervous to speak. They start walking down the street, taking cover in the shadows of the trees that line the road. “If a car comes, hide in the woods,” Zimms instructs quietly. “We don’t want to be seen.”

Bitty nods again, but as they make their way down to the house, no headlights illuminate the road. Most of the lights in the houses they pass are off, save for a porch light or two—it’s almost midnight by now, Bitty knows. He only hopes their target goes to bed at a normal hour. If they could take him out in his sleep, it would almost be easy.

Bitty’s heart sinks when Parse glances at his phone and says, “Here.”

The lights inside the house in front of them are on. The target’s awake.

“Are we gonna wait ‘til he goes to bed?” Bitty asks softly, throat tight.

Zimms considers it, brows knitting together. “We can wait for a while. But we don’t want to risk exhaustion—coming at a sleeping target without being at full speed is worse than coming at an awake one, and I’m already starting to feel slow.”

“Same here.” Parse sighs. “Plus it’s cold out. Freezing our asses off is gonna hinder us more than anything. We could wait in the car, I guess, but then we might miss some sort of opportunity.”

“Makes sense.” Bitty bites his lip. And yeah, it does make sense, but he doesn’t have to _like_ it.

To be fair, the other targets from tonight must’ve been awake, too. It doesn’t seem as real, since Bitty hadn’t actually been there, but Parse and Zimms are both experienced at this. He should trust them.

“We’ll wait fifteen minutes,” Zimms decides, motioning them toward a dark thatch of trees. Bitty’s surprised when Zimms puts an arm around both him and Parse because it’s obvious that Zimms is focusing on the mission over everything else, but Zimms just smiles blandly at his questioning look and murmurs, “It’s warmer this way.”

They wait. Bitty sees very quickly what they’d meant about exhaustion—without the adrenaline of movement simmering in his blood, the tiredness seeps into him quickly. By ten minutes, his eyes are drooping, and he has to make a conscious effort to stand straight instead of leaning against Zimms.

Fifteen minutes go by, and none of the lights turn out.

“Damn,” Parse swears, “We’ve got a night owl, I guess.”

“It’ll be fine. He’s probably as tired as we are,” Zimms reassures him, disentangling himself from both of them as he steps forward. “All right—Bitty, you’re going to stay by the back entrance. It doesn’t look as well-used as the front door, but there’s still a good chance he could run that way, so be ready. Actually—hmm, Parse, do you have any wire?”

“Yeah,” Parse murmurs, digging in a side pocket of his briefcase and pulling out a small spool.

“Good,” Zimms takes it, then hands it to Bitty. “See those two pillars on either side of the door? String this at shin height at the base of both of ‘em. If he tries to run that way, he’ll trip. Just make sure he doesn’t see you before he falls.”

“Should I do that now?” Bitty asks, running his fingers over the coolness of the wire strands. He’s thankful for this, thankful for the knowing look in Zimms’ eye, the one that suggests he’s trying to prevent Bitty from having to deal with a full-frontal assault. They all know that he’s not quite ready for that.

“Just a second—gotta finish explaining first,” Zimms tells him. “Parse is gonna be at the front door. I’ll be going in through one of the windows, assuming one is unlocked, and I’ll text both of you once I find an open one, or if I can’t—might have to break one, but that’s a lot of noise so hopefully it won’t come to that. Keep an eye on your phones, but stay alert. Subdue the target in any way possible if he comes your way, and Parse—come in after me if it takes longer than you’d expect. Got it?”

Parse nods along with Bitty, expression grim but focused. “All right. You gonna scout the perimeter?”

“Sure,” Zimms replies. To Bitty, he says, “We want to know if he’s moving, or if he’s visible from any of the windows. For that matter—if you see him moving in your area while I’m still trying to get in, or if anything weird happens at all, let me know ASAP.”

“Okay.” Bitty nods, his voice raspy with anxiety, and then Zimms disappears off to skirt around the house, peering discreetly into each of the windows as he moves.

Bitty doesn’t realize he’s trembling until Parse puts a hand on his shoulder, steady against Bitty’s cool skin. “Whatcha worried about?”

“Everything.” Bitty scrunches his nose up. “But—I dunno. I’m terrified as hell that he’s gonna come at me.” He shifts nervously, overly aware of the knife at his belt, the spool of wire in his hands.

“Aww, Bits. Don’t worry, okay?” Parse squeezes his shoulder. “Unless I’m occupied, I’m gonna be able to hear if he comes out your door. I’ll be there in a flash, all right?”

Bitty nods shakily as Zimms comes back toward them, and everything is happening so, so fast—he doesn’t want to do this, to be a part of this, but fuck, he _has_ to.

“I think he’s upstairs,” Zimms whispers. “Be careful when you’re in view of the upper windows. I couldn’t tell which room he was in because most of the lights are on.”

“Fucker,” Parse mutters. “’S fine. We’ll work through it. Ready?” He motions his head at Bitty, and Bitty tightens the hand that’s not holding the wire spool into a fist.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he says, steeling his resolve.

He can do this.

And then they’re splitting up and Bitty’s heading toward the back door, stepping quietly and unwinding a length of the wire as he goes. The back of his neck prickles with paranoia, and he nearly screams at the movement of a moth near the faint light of the windows—but thankfully he manages to glue his mouth shut.

Cautiously, he peeks through the half-closed blinds of the window nearest to the door. He’s relieved to see no one in the half-lit room beyond it, though that doesn’t stop him from wanting to turn and look every three seconds—but no, he has to set up the wire. He has to stay focused.

He compromises by tying the wire around the first pillar as quickly as possible, making sure that it’s positioned in a place where it won’t slide before peeking in the window again as he unspools the rest of the wire. Nothing’s changed. Not that he’d expected it to, but the pulsing fear in his chest isn’t paying any heed to logic.

When the length of wire in his hands is long enough, he darts over to attach it to the opposite pillar, willing his hands not to shake as he ties a knot that mirrors the first one. Shit, he doesn’t have a way to cut the wire—wait, oh. He has a knife, of course he does. Mentally kicking himself for his stupidity, he pulls the knife out and cuts the wire, pausing and staring at the rest of the spool when he’s done.

There’s an open suggestion hidden in the wire that lies in his palm. One of his last simulations had involved subduing a target—strangling him, really—with a length of wire just like this one. And it hadn’t been real, of course, but—Bitty hadn’t hesitated then. It’d been the first time he’d truly been scared of himself, of what he could do with his own two hands.

Gut churning, he unwraps two feet more of wire, slicing it off with the blade and pocketing the rest of the spool. If he needs it—well, he has it now, doesn’t he? At the very least, it might help him to incapacitate the target.

Then he sheaths his knife, tugs firmly at the trip-wire to make sure it will hold, and moves to stand out of sight.

It takes nearly five minutes until Bitty receives a text from Zimms. _Found a window. Target moved downstairs for a glass of water but went back up. I’m going in._

And Lord, it might be cold as all get out right now, but Bitty’s clothes feel stifling as he pockets his phone again, swallowing down the sour taste of terror on his tongue. It could be any moment now, he could have to overpower someone or stick them with the syringe or even—even kill them, and he’s not ready, he’s _not_. How does anyone ever prepare themselves for this, this awful task that strips him further of his innocence every second he waits?

But the waiting grows longer, longer. He resists the urge to check the time, sure it’s only been a couple minutes, but when he finally does look, it’s been over ten. Not long after that, the notification light blinks with a message from Parse— _I’m going in too_ is all it says, and Bitty has to choke down a sob of desperation at the thought.

No. No. He’s not going to fucking cry, not now. He needs to stay alert.

The sound of a distant smash makes him jump. It sounds like it’d been coming from the upstairs of a small house, and Bitty can’t tell what’s going on—there’s a noisy bang, and a muffled shout, and he prays and prays that it means that Parse and Zimms have taken down the target.

But luck doesn’t seem to be on his side, because right when he thinks the noises have stopped, an even louder smash sounds somewhere close by. And then there are footsteps, fast ones, coming toward the door he’s standing right next to, and oh God, oh God, _oh God_ —

The door bursts open. Bitty flinches away, but thankfully the man that runs out doesn’t see him in time to avoid falling straight into Bitty’s trap. He trips and flies out into the grass, and Bitty has only a couple of milliseconds to feel proud before he feels his body moving, reacting in the way he’s trained it to even though his mind almost wants him to stay paralyzed in place. He feels his limbs extend as he leaps over the wire, falling to his knees over the man and pressing him to the ground. By a stroke of chance, one of the man’s feet is caught up in the trip wire, and so he barely has the range of motion to struggle as Bitty loops the length of wire around his neck and pulls.

And suddenly, it feels like everything is moving in slow motion.

The man starts making choking noises. Bitty wants to squeeze his eyes shut but can’t, can’t avoid any of this, because if he does then he’s as good as dead.

He could—he could kill him here, just like this. He’s not sure enough of his own strength to commit to strangling him, but it would only take two seconds to unsheathe his knife, to draw blood from the man’s neck until the life seeps out of him like water leaving a sponge.

Bitty transfers the ends of the wire to one hand and reaches for his belt, breath coming fast, wanting to open his mouth and scream and scream—he can’t—he _can’t_. He can’t kill him. He—he’s a _failure_ , but he _can’t_ —

He doesn’t even know the man’s name.

He slides his hand away from the knife handle, slips it into his pocket to pull out the capped syringe instead.

Parse or Zimms can take care of this. Bitty can’t do it, no matter how hard they’ve tried to train him, but—he can at least put him to sleep.

For one heart-stopping second, the man gets leverage in the grass and tries to flip them over—oh God oh _God_ —but Bitty manages to avoid his elbow when it swings back, shoving the man’s arms to the ground and hooking his legs over so that the man’s arms are trapped—it’s a wide stance, and the manic part of his brain feels a little gleeful that he can stretch like this because of his figure-skating training. Then he starts to ready the syringe, squeezing the plunger slightly so there’s no air in it just as he’d been taught.

But the man turns his head, and once he sees what Bitty’s doing, he starts to struggle even more, and _oh, God_ —he knocks the needle from Bitty’s grasp— _fuck_. It rolls across the grass, landing too far away for Bitty to reach. “W-wait,” the man wheezes, his struggling lessening once he sees that the anesthetic is out of Bitty’s hands.

“What?” Bitty spits out, half from frustration and half because he’s terrified.

“You’re with—” The man stops, coughing, and Bitty takes pity on him and ever so slightly loosens the wire around his neck. He still won’t be able to move much, but at least he can breathe. “You’re with _them._ The Aces. Why _now_?”

Villains only spill their secrets in movies, Bitty thinks. But since when has Bitty thought of himself as a villain?

“Y’all are regrouping,” he mutters, silently praying that Parse or Zimms will come through the door, will come and relieve him of this burden.

“Regrouping, my a-ass.” The man hacks another cough, and Bitty’s lip starts to tremble, this is _too hard, he can’t do this—_ “Look,” the man growls, “Whatever. I don’t know what you think you know, and I bet you’ve—already gotten to Rowe and Banister, haven’t you?”

Bitty doesn’t know. That’s probably the men Parse and Zimms took down earlier tonight—but Bitty hadn’t known their names either. He can’t tell.

_‘It’s easier to distance yourself if you don’t think of them as people_ ,’ Parse had told him a couple of days ago, after Bitty had come out of a simulation a crying, shivering mess. ‘ _The moment you can put a name to their face—that’s when you’re fucked.’_

And maybe Bitty’s face betrays something, because the man swears, “ _Fuck_. O-okay, whatever, just—if you haven’t gotten to her already—leave Winslow alone. She’s got a fuckin’ family now, little kids and shit—fuck, I’m begging you, leave her alone, okay?”

And what the _hell_?

Bitty’s mind starts whirling in all sorts of unexpected directions. There’s a fourth person. There’s a fourth legacy member of the Schooners that they hadn’t known _existed_. This person—a woman, it seems like—Winslow. She has a family. She’s not living alone like these men were—she’s got a life, and children, and what’s Bitty supposed to _do_? Their mission was to eliminate the remaining old members, and it certainly sounds like Winslow is important to the man in front of him, sounds like Winslow is probably someone they should be worrying about—but.

But Bitty doesn’t want to kill anyone else. He can’t even kill the struggling man beneath his thighs, someone who would surely break Bitty’s neck if he were able to get free. Bitty glances briefly around, but he can’t see nor hear Parse and Zimms—and _fuck_ , he hopes they’re okay—but nonetheless, neither of them are going to know if Bitty just—doesn’t tell them about Winslow.

That’s it. He’ll just pretend this never happened.

They’ll never know.

Bitty stares at the man, at a face that Bitty’s only seen in pictures, at his light hair, his eyes bulging in fear—Bitty can’t tell what color they are in the moonlight. Determination rising strong in his gut, Bitty takes a deep breath and reaches for his knife. He didn’t want to have to do this, but doing this now is better than having the man speak to Parse and Zimms, better than having to sacrifice another life tonight.

But barely a second after Bitty’s fingers have grazed the hilt, the back door bangs open, and Parse runs out, limping slightly and devoid of his briefcase. “Careful!” he hisses frantically as Bitty turns to look.

The man senses Bitty’s distraction and takes the opportunity to try to wriggle out of his grasp, but Parse leaps over the wire trap and helps hold him down again. “P-Parse,” Bitty gasps, “Can you—I can’t—”

“I’ve got it,” Parse murmurs, panting from exertion. “Just—hand me your knife.”

Bitty nods. “O-okay.”

His hand shakes as he slips the blade from its sheath and gives it to Parse. Then he turns his face away, squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see.

And there’s no doubt about it—he was instrumental in this man’s death.

He can’t avoid it anymore.

It’s already happened.

The thought simmers in his brain, threatening to drown him in its potency as the body beneath him goes limp.

But—at least there’s some cold comfort in the fact that the blood is technically on Parse’s hands, not his own. And maybe Bitty’s even managed to save someone else in the process. He can only hope to God that she’s not someone who’s going to go and hurt others after all of this is said and done.

_Live your life_ , he thinks to her, letting Parse tug him away from the body, numbly following him back into the house. _Live your life and don’t look back._

Winslow will be fine, he tells himself. If they didn’t know about her to begin with, then it’s possible she wasn’t even part of the Schooners’ resurgence. Hell, the man they’d just killed hadn’t seemed to know much about the regrouping either—but thinking too much about why that might be makes Bitty’s gut twist horrendously, so shoves it from his mind.

“Are you guys okay?” Zimms says, and Bitty jumps as he suddenly appears from around the corner. “Sorry—Parse and I couldn’t tell where he went at first, so I was checking the front.”

“We’re good—right, Bits?” Parse puts a hand on his shoulder, and Bitty has the irrational urge to shrug it off— _that hand has hurt someone, has taken their life away_ —but Parse is looking at him with worry in his eyes, and something in his expression allows Bitty to relax just the slightest bit. It’s okay. Parse is still Parse. Nothing’s even changed—Parse had been doing these things since way before Bitty’d met either of them.

He can’t really blame Parse for a truth he’d known from the beginning.

“I’m okay,” Bitty says quietly, even though he feels shaky and numb and quite frankly still terrified.

“Okay. I’m gonna turn out the lights so this place won’t look weird in the morning,” Zimms says, turning to Parse. “Can you call Lardo?”

Parse does so, speaking in terse lingo, and it takes Bitty a moment to fully process that they’re talking about cleaning up the body— _Lord_. He’s suddenly worried that they’re going to ask him to help—but Parse takes one look at his face and says, “Hey. Would you mind grabbing my bag? I dropped it on the upstairs landing.”

Bitty breathes a sigh of relief—he kind of doesn’t want to be alone, but being alone is better than having to deal with—other things.

He takes his time retrieving Parse’s bag, even peeking inside to make sure it’s the right one before he walks back downstairs. He starts to turn toward the back door, but Parse catches his attention from the opposite direction—“This way. You don’t wanna look in there.”

“Why?” Bitty asks as they step onto the front porch.

“We staged the body in the living room,” Parse explains. “It’s easiest to make it look like a suicide, in this case. It’ll put the cops off the trail for a while. Anyway, once Zimms is done cleaning up the blood, we’ll be good to go.

Bitty’s stomach churns. He sways unsteadily, and Parse puts an arm around his shoulder—it doesn’t feel repulsive anymore, just like Parse, warm and comforting and—and—

“P-Parse,” Bitty whimpers, “I’m so—fuck.”

“Oh, Bitty. I’m so sorry. I know how you feel.” Parse turns to envelop him in a proper hug. “Don’t think too much right now, okay? Focus on getting out of here, and then—I’ll hold you for as long as you want. If you want that, I mean. And we can talk about—stuff, if you need to.”

Bitty gives a small nod, burying his face in Parse’s shoulder. He stays there until Zimms joins them on the porch, a knotted trash bag in his hand, and he feels a tiny bit better as they make their way back toward the car, as they stow their equipment in the back and Bitty hands off his phone. He feels relieved to be rid of it—the lingering temptation to call someone had been burning a hole in his pocket.

The ride to the safe house is—quiet. They’re all exhausted, Bitty thinks, but Parse sits in the backseat with him without Bitty even asking, holds him and strokes his arm and allows Bitty to stay alone with his thoughts.

Did he do okay? Was it enough? What if he’d messed up somehow, in ways he can’t even begin to evaluate around the ball of nausea in his stomach? Bitty’s head is overflowing, the discomfort spilling down the sides of his face and wrapping around him like the worst kind of blanket, and all he can do is cling to Parse and wish it far, far away.

Zimms excuses himself to take a shower when they get back to the safe house. Bitty kind of wishes they could leave immediately, could return to the safety of the Aces headquarters, but logically he knows they’re all way too exhausted to even think about driving right now. Instead, he and Parse collapse onto the bed. By the time Zimms joins them, Bitty’s already falling mercifully into sleep.

xXx

Parse tells him about what’d happened on their end when they’re all in the car, on their way back home—and what an odd place to call home, Bitty thinks. But it’s astronomically better than the lifeless safe house, and at least Bitty has friends there, has Nancy to confide in and the comfort of Parse’s bed.

He listens as Parse tells him the stilted tale of how it’d all played out, explains in careful words how the man had managed to lock Zimms in a closet before Parse had gotten there. He tells him about the struggle upstairs, how Parse had twisted his ankle and fallen trying to keep the man from escaping. “And then I came out to find you,” Parse murmurs, reaching over to squeeze Bitty’s hand.

For the first time, Bitty dares to ask the question that’s been ripe in his brain since they’d finished the mission. “Did I do all right?”

“What? Of course you did.” Parse looks surprised. “We finished the mission, didn’t we?”

“But I couldn’t—kill him.” Bitty’s mouth twists in shame.

It’s Zimms, from the driver’s seat, who responds. “Killing isn’t everything. From what Parse told me, you were able to hold him captive until Parse got there to finish the job, and that’s more than enough.”

“Really? So—the Heads will be okay? With me?” Bitty can’t help but hope.

“I don’t like to make snap judgements, but—you did exceptionally well with your tasks, especially as a rookie. I think Parse would agree that it’s fairly safe to say you’re fine,” Zimms aims a smile at him.

And then it hits him—it’s _over_. Obviously he’ll have to go on more missions later, and it’ll probably take a long time for the Heads to stop being suspicious of him, but he’s _done_ with this first test, this initial measure of his worth. He’s so relieved that it feels like someone’s lifted a giant stone from where it’d been pressing right against Bitty’s chest. “I—oh, Lord. _Thank you_ ,” he breathes, surprised tears pricking at his eyes. “Both of you.”

Zimms chuckles, and Parse smooths his thumb over the back of Bitty’s hand and says, “Aww, Bits. What for?”

“For—everything. You know. Trainin’ me, and making sure I was safe,” Bitty tells them, smiling gratefully.

“Well, we’d be shit mentors if we didn’t,” Zimms points out.

“Yeah, I didn’t go through all the trouble of saving you just to leave you to the wolves,” Parse teases. “Not to mention getting demoted and all.”

“Y’all,” Bitty shakes his fondly. “I guess that’s true enough. But still—thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Parse murmurs. Then a devious spark appears in his eye, and he looks over at Zimms. “Hey—speaking of my demotion…”

Snorting, Zimms nods. “You’ll most likely be reinstated right when we get back, assuming nothing goes wrong with the debriefing.”

“Fuck yeah!” Parse’s face breaks into a grin. “Sweet.”

Delighted, Bitty squeezes his hand, smiling. “I’m glad for you.”

“Yeah,” Parse looks across at him, “I am too.”

xXx

By the time they’ve returned to the Aces complex, it’s mid-afternoon and Bitty’s just about sick of sitting in that car. He hadn’t expected to do much more today than unpack and sleep off his remaining exhaustion, so he’s surprised when Parse tugs him to the mess hall after they’ve dropped their bags off in Parse’s room.

He’s even more surprised when they walk into what looks like some sort of celebration in the dining room—and then he sees a small ‘ _Welcome Home!’_ banner and realizes, oh, it’s for _them_. Zimms is already there, talking quietly with Lardo, and Bitty can already tell that most everyone he knows here is in attendance.

“Does this happen for every mission?” he asks Parse as they head toward Zimms.

“Most of ’em,” Parse replies. “These guys will take any excuse to socialize and run with it. I usually don’t go unless it’s someone on our floor.”

A soft smile grows on Zimms’ face when he sees Bitty and Parse walking over, and Lardo turns to greet them. “Hey, dorks.” She grins, hugging both of them in turn and then looking at Bitty. “I heard you were quite the asset, huh?” And _oh._ Zimms has been saying nice things about him, then—and that thought sends sparks of happiness tingling pleasantly down his spine.

“Well, I suppose so,” he allows, grinning. “I was—“

“Yooo!” Shitty interrupts him, inserting himself into the conversation. “Bitty’s first mission!” He claps a hand firmly on both Bitty and Parse’s shoulders. “That means you get to cut the cake for everyone, yeah? That’s always the newbie’s job!”

“I—oh, sure!” Bitty says, eyes wide, and then before he can really respond, he’s somehow being passed along in a chain of hugs and shoulder claps and ‘ _good job, bro!’_ s until he’s almost dizzy. Even a few people he doesn’t recognize come up to talk to congratulate him, cups of soda in hand and impressed expressions on their faces.

And gosh, this is it _—_ he’s truly been initiated into the group, hasn’t he?

It feels really goddamned good to belong somewhere.

Even here.

“Oh—Johnson!” he calls out, seeing a thatch of brunet hair that he swears he recognizes, and Johnson turns toward him. “I—oh, I like, um, your sunglasses?”

Johnson is wearing mirrored shades, even under the fluorescent lighting, and a jacket with a collar so tall that it almost completely obscures his mouth. “Headache,” Johnson says opaquely, collar moving as he does. “No sweat, dude. Probably looks funny, huh?”

“Aww, you poor thing! I hope you feel better,” Bitty murmurs, patting his shoulder.

Johnson grimaces. “Can’t do much about it—the narrative is going to change—” he tries to stay, but then he cuts off, wincing. Slowly, he tilts his head at Bitty, and then his brows knit together and he suddenly pulls Bitty into a hug.

It’s a weird sort of congratulations, Bitty supposes, but welcome nonetheless. “You should get some sleep!” Bitty tells him sincerely. “Maybe it’ll help?”

“There’s no help for it. The direction of the story’s already been foretold,” Johnson gives a decisive shake of the head.

Bitty is more confused than anything else. “I—I’m sorry?” he says.

“I’m sorry too,” Johnson replies, a note of sadness in his voice.

But then Holster yells Bitty’s name across the room, urging him to come cut the cake. Bitty bids farewell to Johnson with a small wave. He’ll never understand that guy, will he?

xXx

“Hey—are you all right?” Bitty asks Parse, propping himself up on one elbow. It’s nighttime now, and he and Parse are lying in Zimms’ bed, talking quietly while they wait for Zimms to get back from his meeting with the Heads. Bitty’s content, satisfied both from dinner and in spirit—he’s got _friends_ , he thinks, and now he gets to lie here with Parse, gets to cuddle and chat and feel almost loved. It’s so, so nice, enough that his heart feels like it’s overflowing.

“I’m fine.” Parse cocks his head. “Why?”

“I mean, with the Schooners and all.” Bitty shrugs. “Bringin’ up the past like that can’t have been fun.” They’d discussed most of the mission details in the car earlier, but Bitty hadn’t really wanted to bring up this particular topic with Zimms right there in front of them.

Parse looks away for a moment, eyes contemplative. “It wasn’t—a _great_ mission to go on,” he says eventually. “Pretty fucking stressful, but that was because of a lot of things, and I think I was more worried about keeping you safe than I was about stuff in the past.”

“Oh—sorry.” Bitty flushes. “I know I was probably a handful.”

“Nah, it was good to have something to focus on.” Parse shakes his head. “And you’re a novice anyway—it’s to be expected. Besides, it’s over now, yeah?”

Bitty beams at him. “Yeah,” he murmurs.

Parse is leaning in to kiss him when the door slams open.

Both of them sit up in shock as Zimms storms into the room, letting the door bang shut behind him. “ _Bitty!_ ”

“What?” Bitty squeaks, terror clawing at his chest. He hasn’t seen Zimms looking this angry since the day he found out that Bitty couldn’t take a hit—oh, _Lord_.

Zimms starts advancing toward him, but then Bitty flinches hard and Zimms stops in his tracks. “I—fuck. I’m sorry,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut and scrubbing a hand over his face. He takes a deep, shuddery breath, and—oh, God, something’s wrong, isn’t it?

“Zimms?” Parse asks, worry seeping into his voice so that it’s higher than usual. “What’s up?”

“Bitty,” Zimms starts again. He looks like he’s making an effort to tamp down his temper, and Bitty is grateful for that at least. Zimms takes a deep breath. “When we discussed the mission earlier in the car today—was there anything you neglected to mention?”

Oh, God.

Fuck.

_Winslow_.

Bitty starts trembling. Lord, he’s fucked up, hasn’t he? If Zimms is mad at him, then this is bad—Lord. He tries to open his mouth, but no sound comes out, even when he tries to force the air through his windpipe. His voice is stuck tight in his chest, coiled up alongside the eruption of anxiety that’s blooming there.

Next to him, Parse’s face has gone tense. “Bitty?” he prompts quietly.

Bitty hangs his head.

Zimms sighs sharply. “Bitty, please—just. Tell me.”

Bitty wants nothing more than to climb off the bed and flee the room. But that’s not possible, not now, and they’d catch him at any rate—they’re bigger, faster than he is. Hell, most everyone in this building is stronger than him. He wouldn’t have a chance if he tried to run.

He can’t run. So he pulls his legs up, wraps his arms around them, and stares resolutely at the bedspread. “There w-was—a fourth m-member,” he admits, the words manifesting as mere wisps of terror between his lips.

The room goes silent. For a moment, Bitty wonders if he’d spoken too quietly. But then, Zimms lets out a shaky gasp, lips tightening not in anger but in—sadness?

Zimms takes two steps closer, kneels down on the bed, and wraps his arms around Bitty. “No…” he mumbles, and it almost sounds like a whimper. “Why didn’t you tell us?” He pulls back, staring Bitty straight in the eyes.

Bitty fights the urge to look away. “The target—he was scared for her.” He shakes his head, breath starting to come faster and faster. “He didn’t even kn-now about the regrouping himself, I think, and I didn’t want to h-hurt anyone else—the other agent—she has _children_ , Zimms!”

Zimms’ eyes drift closed. “Bitty,” he murmurs, then again, “…Bitty, you—fuck. It’s out of our hands now. Goddamnit!” he spits, jaw clenched in distress.

“Zimms,” Parse speaks up, an uncharacteristic tremor in his voice. “What the fuck is going on? Why are you—why are you yelling at him?”

“Because,” Zimms straightens, his entire face white as stone. “The Heads—they bugged his phone. They—they knew. They think he’s—a traitor.”

The words sound funny in Bitty’s ears, like someone’s shouting at him underwater and all he’s getting are the bubbles. It takes a second for the meaning to sink in, and then it feels like he’s the one sinking, drowning in a sea of disbelief. Finally, he breaks through to the surface, gasping for air—“I’m—not,” he chokes out desperately, “I’m not!”

Zimms is shaking. “I know that. I know, but—damnit, Bitty, you could’ve just _told_ us, and then we wouldn’t have to—fuck.”

“Have to what?” Parse asks, words flat. But Zimms doesn’t answer, and Parse pushes himself out of the bed, grabbing onto Zimms’ arms. “J—Zimms! Have to _what_?”

Zimms eyes widen frantically, remorsefully, even fearfully. But that doesn’t do anything to soften the blow that comes next, as Zimms opens his mouth and grits out, “They said he can’t be here anymore. We have to—to get rid of him.”

Bitty clutches at the sheets, and the words fall to the floor as chaotically as the doomed path of leaves in autumn, twisting themselves through Bitty’s ears and down his throat, suffocating, choking him— _no._

_No no no no no no no—_

“ _No_ ,” Parse whispers, shaking his head. “Fuck them—they can’t—Zimms, _no_ , this can’t—fuck, _Bitty_!” He takes an aborted step towards Bitty, very nearly reaching a hand out but changing his mind—“I need. Fuck. I gotta—clear my head.” He motions vaguely toward the door. “Just—don’t. Fucking. Touch him.” This last remark is aimed at Zimms, and Zimms takes it about as well as a shot to the heart, sinking onto the bed with a groan as Parse storms out of the room.

Parse is gone. Bitty is shaking, wounded, and Parse is gone, and Zimms is hurt, and Bitty’s—Bitty’s going to die, fuck—this is really it, Parse is going to come back and pull out his briefcase and Bitty’s going to be the one on the other side of his blade—or maybe Zimms will do it, if Parse can’t, but either way—

There’s no escaping it this time. No one’s going to save him, not with direct orders from the Heads, and Bitty would bet anything that disobeying in this case might mean death—and the thought of _that_ , of Parse or Zimms being destroyed for Bitty’s sake—that’s what makes him start crying in the end.

“Bitty…” Zimms trails off as Bitty descends into sobs. “Fuck, Bitty, I’m so, so sorry. I don’t want this. I don’t—fuck. Wait, Parse told me—not to touch you,” he mumbles as Bitty starts leaning toward him.

“I th-think he m-meant—not to h-hurt me, or s-something,” Bitty gasps between his tears, and when Zimms sighs and nods and holds his arms out, Bitty crawls over and buries his face in Zimms’ shirt.

He feels—God, he feels weak and useless and _ashamed_. He’d thought about telling them. It’s not even like it’d slipped his mind when they’d debriefed—he’d explicitly thought about Winslow while Zimms asked him about his part of the mission, had shoved the memory down behind a layer of faux disinterest just so his nervousness wouldn’t bleed through.

This is all his damned fault. And he has no way to get out of it now, not like before, nowhere to turn for another miracle rescue.

This is it.

“A-any chance—they’ll change their m-minds?” Bitty shudders violently, reluctantly pulling away as he speaks.

“No. They won’t,” Zimms says, sounding much more certain than Bitty had hoped for. “I’m so so-orry,” he adds again, voice cracking.

Bitty lets out a shuddery sigh. It’d been a pipe dream anyway, but with its disappearance, his last vestiges of hope are circling the drain.

“Bitty?” Zimms asks. “Are you—well, you’re not _okay_ , but. What’re you thinking?”

“It’s n-nothing,” Bitty’s breath hitches. “I’m—I dunno. It was my own mistake, so it’s not like I couldn’t h-have changed things.”

Zimms bites his lip. “So—this is probably the last thing you want to talk about right now, but—it might be important.” He sighs. “You mentioned—that the target didn’t seem to know about the Schooners’ regrouping?”

“I don’t think he d-did.” Bitty closes his eyes, summoning up the memory. “R-right before he told me about—about the last member, he said something like, ‘regrouping, my ass’?” I d-dunno. Either he thought it was stupid or he just like, didn’t know about it—or maybe that’s not what they were d-doing?”

“Hmm,” Zimms hums noncommittally.

“P-Parse—he left,” Bitty changes the subject, sniffling. “Where—?”

“He’s angry.” Zimms sighs again. “He lashes out sometimes when he’s—he probably just didn’t wanna scare you.”

“Oh.” Bitty swallows against the pain in his throat. Zimms is holding him, and it’s nice, but—Bitty really wants Parse to be here right now, because if Bitty doesn’t have that much time left, he wants to spend every last possible moment with Parse by his side, oh _God_ , there’s no _time_ —

“He’ll come back,” Zimms promises firmly.

Dully, Bitty nods, heartbeat feeling unsteady. “I—Zimms?” he asks, as something occurs to him.

“Yeah?”

“Could you—p-promise me something?”

Zimms exhales a shuddery breath. “I guess it depends what it is.”

Bitty swallows. “Don’t break his h-heart, if you can help it?”

“I—” Zimms stops, giving him a long stare. He has to clear his throat before he can speak. “I have to ask—um. Are you… in love with him?”

A sob escapes Bitty’s throat, sounding more like a laugh than anything—there’s no reason to hide it anymore, is there? “I think s-so,” he admits, wiping his eyes on the back of his arm. “I m-mean—aren’t you?”

Zimms’ gaze softens. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “I am.”

Bitty nods, biting down against the unexpected disappointment he feels—it’s not like he hadn’t expected it, and it doesn’t even _matter_ anymore because Bitty’s not going to be around to see it pan out—but still. Parse is in love with Zimms, and Zimms loves him back. Bitty really hadn’t had a chance. “Please,” he whispers, shutting his eyes. “Don’t leave him alone.”

Zimms is quiet for a moment. “Are you gonna tell him? About your feelings?”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it,” Bitty mumbles, averting his eyes. “What? D’ya think I should?”

“Fuck, I dunno,” Zimms groans, mouth twisting. “I think—if I were him, I think I’d want to know.”

“Won’t it h-hurt him?” Bitty’s bottom lip trembles—fuck, he hadn’t even _thought_ about actually telling Parse before, but if he’s going to do it, there’s only so much time he has left— _fuck._

“Maybe.” Zimms sighs. “But. If you don’t tell him—that means I’d probably have to sometime or another, and—I think he’d rather hear it from you.”

“I-I guess.” Bitty nods slowly, thoughts buzzing wildly in his brain.

What if Parse doesn’t care? Wouldn’t that just make this harder on him? And even if he does care—knowing is only going to make it worse, but.

But.

Bitty _wants_ to tell him. Falling in love with Parse has been probably the nicest thing that’s ever happened to him—they’ve trained together and laughed together, had sex, even, and Parse always holds Bitty when he’s feeling sad—and Bitty wants to tell him so badly that it sings frantically in his lungs. Maybe it will be more closure for Bitty than for Parse, but Bitty can’t stop himself from wanting it.

Okay. If he’s going to tell him—he needs to make this easier on Parse. Which means that Bitty has to calm down, because if he calms down and acts like nothing is wrong, maybe Parse will be a little more okay.

Bitty breathes in, breathes out, wipes his face off on his sleeve. “It won’t—bother you, if I tell him?” he asks Zimms.

“No,” Zimms shakes his head. “It’s only fair. You’re—you’re just as close to him as I am, you know.”

Bitty bites his lip. “He loves you, though.”

“Yeah,” Zimms holds his gaze steady. “But you’re important to him, too.”

“O-okay,” Bitty sighs. Swallowing down the worry in his chest, he glances at the clock on the wall. It’s just past eight. “How much—how much time do I have?” he asks quietly, willing away the tears that want to return.

“By morning,” Zimms responds just as softly, and when Bitty slumps over to rest his head on Zimms shoulder, Zimms reaches up and rubs his back. “I’ll give you some space when he comes back, if you want.”

“Thank you,” Bitty whispers.

Zimms gives him a somber look. “Then I guess—I’ll say goodbye now?”

“Oh.” Bitty looks at him, stricken. It’s too fast, too soon—but so is the speed at which his life is ending, and he can’t seem to stop either of those things in their tracks. “I-I—“ his face burns as he leans in for a proper hug. “Bye,” he whispers, a leftover sob escaping his lips.

“Bye,” Zimms says, and Bitty can feel that his pulse is racing faster, faster, too fast—so Bitty hugs him tighter, holds him until his breathing slows again.

They wait for Parse in an uneasy silence.

xXx

No, no _, Bitty_.

Kent is so fucking _angry_.

He had to run, had to escape the snarling words that wanted to come out of his mouth. He nearly headed toward his room, but no—Bitty is everywhere in there, his echoes draped over the clothes on the floor, the indent in his pillow. Kent doesn’t know how he’ll ever be able to sleep there again.

He went outside instead, had sat against the wall of the residence hall and let the night air wrap around him until he was slightly numb from the coolness of the brick against his back. He stood only when the urge to break something finally dissolved, and then he realized—fuck. He’d left Bitty in Zimms room, left him when he was probably right on the edge of a breakdown—the absolute _worst_ time to leave someone.

Kent takes the stairs at a run.

He’s unsurprised to see Jack and Bitty huddled together when he enters the room. But when Jack immediately gets up, pressing a chaste kiss to Bitty’s cheek and heading toward the door, Kent can’t help but feel a pang of worry about what they’d discussed in his absence. “Hey—” Kent tries to stop him, and Jack does pause, hand on the knob. “I—I want to do it,” Kent decides, though really, it hadn’t ever been a question.

He’d rather do it than anyone else, because he needs it to be painless, and because—well, it’s probably a fucking weird reason, but there’s something strangely intimate about killing someone you know, especially a lover. If anyone has to do it, has to know Bitty that closely, Kent wants it to be him—at least Kent can comfort him then, can hold Bitty’s hand and stroke his back and maybe even make him laugh.

He gulps down the raw distress in his throat and feels his hands clench into resolved fists. “I promised Bitty, back when he first got here—unless, uh, you don’t want me to?” He bites his lip as the thought occurs to him, looking tentatively to Bitty.

“That’s f-fine,” Bitty sniffles, and Kent’s heart is breaking, shattering onto the floor as he stares at Bitty’s red-rimmed eyes—fuck, _no._

Jack inhales shakily—and of course this is affecting him too. There’s no way it wouldn’t. “If you think you can,” Jack tells him, guilt stamped all over his expression.

“Are—are you leaving?” Kent asks him, eyeing the hand on the doorknob.

Jack’s face is dull. “I don’t want to intrude on your goodbye,” he murmurs.

“But—” Kent starts, looking over to Bitty. But Bitty doesn’t say anything about wanting Jack there, just holds an arm out toward Kent, and Kent has no choice but to go to him, climbing onto the bed and wrapping his arms around Bitty as tightly as he can. Bitty sighs and relaxes into the touch, and Kent is struck by how much trust Bitty has in him—if Kent were Bitty, he thinks he’d want to get as far away as he could.

“I’ll be out here if you need me,” Jack pulls the door open, motioning out at the couch.

Kent closes his eyes. “I’ll come get you before I—yeah.”

Come to think of it, he doesn’t have his kit with him, anyway—he thinks he’s left it in his room. He’ll have to retrieve it later, but right now—right now Jack is leaving, closing the door behind him, and Kent has Bitty for these last few precious moments.

“I’m sorry I left.” Kent turns and presses the words into Bitty’s temple.

“It’s okay. You’re here now, ain’t ya?” Bitty says. And then a tired smile grows on his face, stark against the obvious evidence of his tears, and Kent doesn’t know how the hell he’s managing to keep a smile on considering how fucked up life is right now.

But if Bitty can smile, then hell, Kent can try for one too. “I’ll be here as long as you need me,” he says honestly, trying his best to look reassuring—and really, he’d stay forever if he could.

“Thank you,” Bitty tells him, resting his head in the crook of Kent’s neck. “Hey, Parse?”

“Hmm?” Kent tugs on Bitty’s arm, pulling them up so that they’re sitting back against the headboard, Bitty partially in his lap. Bitty’s quiet for so long that Kent thinks he’s forgotten what he was going to say. When Kent nudges his arm, Bitty looks up at him, eyes hard, almost as if he’s warring with himself. “What’s up?” Kent asks.

“I—” Bitty tries, then stops and shakes his head, exhaling sharply. “Hell, this is hard." He groans.

Kent’s chest feels like it’s cracking, ripping him open from his throat to his stomach. “You don’t have to worry about it,” he tells him, sliding his hands up and down Bitty’s arms. “It won’t hurt. I—I promise.”

Bitty briefly squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again, he looks even more determined than before, fixing Kent with a steady gaze. “That’s not—what I was thinkin’ about. I ain’t scared of you anymore.” He shakes his head. “I… I trust you.”

A breath escapes Kent’s lungs that feels almost like a sob. “Why?” is all he can ask, “How can you trust me, even when I have to—to—”

“Shh.” Bitty reaches up and puts a finger over his lips. “Because I—Parse, I-I—shit.” He frowns sadly, bowing his head and leaning into Kent’s shoulder. “I c-can’t do it. It’s too hard.”

He’s mumbling mostly to himself, but Kent responds anyway. “Can’t do what?”

Bitty just shakes his head. “It’s—it’s nothin’.”

“Okay,” Kent concedes, not wanting to push him. He brings a hand up and strokes Bitty’s hair, focusing on the feeling of the strands slipping through his fingers.

One, two heartbeats later, Bitty sits up and looks at him. “Parse?” he asks again, “Could you do something for me?”

“What?” Kent asks, heart in his mouth.

“Just for a little while,” Bitty starts, biting his lip. “Could you—could you pretend to love me?”

Kent stops breathing for about three seconds.

His mind spirals back to his past self, back when he’d asked a similar thing of Jack, back when Jack had given a drunk little laugh and said, ‘ _Okay, Parse’_ —but this is different, because Kent doesn’t think Jack had loved him then. And if he did, he’d sure as hell hidden it from Kent.

But Bitty is different, because—

Because God, Kent loves him so fucking much.

It hits him like a stab to the chest, the very thing he’d avoided even thinking about for fear of betraying Jack—not that it makes any logical sense, since Jack doesn’t really love Kent anyway. But this—nothing even _matters_ now, because Bitty’s going to _die—_ Bitty’s going to fucking die, and all Kent wants to do is kiss him forever and ever, to clutch him to his chest and listen to his laugh and—and— _fuck_.

Bitty’s face turns a bright red, and Kent’s thoughts whirl back to the present. “I-I. Um. It’s okay if you don’t want to? Sorry, I’m being dumb,” Bitty mumbles, jerking his gaze away.

And Kent can’t help it—he stutters a breath and cups Bitty’s jaw and kisses him. Bitty whimpers, soft and yearning, and Kent parts his lips and lets their tongues twist together, curving his arm around Bitty’s waist and pulling him as close as he can. Then Kent drags his mouth away from Bitty’s, gasping a shuddery breath, and utters the words he thinks he’s probably known for a long time—

“I don’t have to pretend. I—I do love you.”

“Y-you— _Parse_ , oh Lord,” Bitty hides his face in his hands, flushing even more brightly than before—and Kent’s heart beats faster and faster as Bitty sighs, sliding his hands down so that just his eyes peek out. “I love you,” Bitty murmurs, an incredulous spark in his eyes. “I love you so much.”

Kent lets out a broken gasp, hugging Bitty tightly to him, feeling Bitty’s hands slide warm up his back. Just for a little while, Kent’s going to let himself forget about the looming ending to their story. Just for a little while, he’ll love Bitty with as much as he can, even though it’s nowhere close to as much as Bitty deserves.

But when Kent pulls back, tears are starting to well up Bitty’s his eyes, and Kent furrows his brow in alarm. “Woah, woah, don’t cry,” he says, swiping at Bitty’s tears with his thumb. “What’s wrong? I mean—fuck, besides the obvious—you know what, never mind—”

“No, I’m h-happy,” Bitty sniffles, “I’m so happy. I didn’t think you’d feel that way—I mean, you have Zimms, don’t you?”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not just as fucking amazing,” Kent says, and it’s worth being sappy just for the glowing smile that forms on Bitty’s lips.

“I-I—really?” Bitty asks.

“Yeah. Really.” Kent grins, breathing in Bitty’s scent, leaning forward just to press his face into Bitty’s neck. “’Sides—he doesn’t love me, anyway,” Kent shrugs. Bitty makes a little noise of surprise at that, and Kent pulls back to stare at him. “What?”

“Oh, fuck—um. You should talk to him?” Bitty’s eyes go wide, and God, that can’t mean what Kent thinks it means—can it?

“I’ll think about it,” Kent says, because trying to wrap his head around _Bitty_ being in love with him is almost too much right now, let alone speculating about Jack. Instead he leans forward and captures Bitty’s lips again, sighs contently against Bitty’s mouth when Bitty whimpers.

Kent loves kissing Bitty. He loves touching Bitty, loves the way Bitty can’t seem to keep from squirming—and Kent wants things he probably shouldn’t even be thinking about right now, blood rushing down to his groin as he feels Bitty grow hard against his hips. But fuck, that’s morbid, isn’t it? It’s only when Bitty himself pulls back with half-lidded eyes and moans, “I need you, Parse,” that Kent lets himself make a move.

He takes his time with Bitty, strips them both down and presses tender kisses everywhere he can reach. If they’re going to do this, he wants it to be as loving as possible—a new beginning, maybe, even as they say goodbye. Part of him wonders if he’s a sick sort of person for wanting Bitty even now—they might as well be fucking on his deathbed, after all. But Kent can’t help the slow pulse of want in his veins, the kind that slowly burns him from the inside out as he kisses Bitty’s mouth, his neck, his chest, as he asks Bitty if all the touching is okay and Bitty gives a feverish nod.

“Touch me anyway you want, honey,” Bitty gives him a soft smile, and Kent wants to fucking cry—but. But Bitty looks happy right now, here in Kent’s arms, and Kent’s not going to dare to take that happiness away.

Bitty giggles when Kent flips them over so that Bitty’s on top, and God, Kent would give almost anything to hear Bitty laugh like that for the rest of his life. “Hey—you should, uh. Give me a hickey,” Kent says, and he probably would’ve regretted it except that Bitty leans over immediately and starts suckling at his neck. “Nnngh—yeah, that’s—fuck.” Kent sighs, and when Bitty sits back up, his eyes are suspiciously damp.

“To remember me by,” Bitty says, voice nearly a whisper.

Kent presses his fingers into the bruise on his neck, fighting not to clench his teeth in pain. “In that case—you better leave more,” he tries to joke, but Bitty leans down and nips at his collarbone, works his way across until Kent has a trail of marks peppered over his sternum. “I didn’t mean that I’d, like, forget otherwise.” Kent stops, swallowing. “Bits—you know I’ll never forget you, right?”

Bitty nods slowly. “I wish—never mind.” He shakes his head. “That’s too sad.”

“What?” Kent cocks his head, reaching up to slide his hand through Bitty’s hair.

“I wish you could forget, just a little.” Bitty frowns, ducking his head. “I don’t want you to be sad…”

“Did you know,” Kent murmurs, “That you’re the nicest fucking person in the world? There’s no way I could forget you, and—and I wouldn’t want to.”

Bitty’s face flares crimson. “Thanks, Parse.” He laughs softly. “Still want me?”

“Always,” Kent nods, the sudden rush of blood to his groin serving as more than an adequate testament to that. He circles his fingertips lazily over Bitty’s bare hip, taking him in, staring at the pale planes of his skin and mapping out the definition of his muscles as he holds himself over Kent. “What do you want?”

“Want it slow,” Bitty says, flushing, which sounds as perfect and lovely as music from Bitty’s mouth. So Kent holds Bitty tightly to his chest as he opens him up with slick, steady fingers, and then when Bitty finally sinks down onto Kent’s cock, the tempo is almost unbearably teasing as they roll their hips together.

“Feels nice,” Bitty declares, cheeks permanently flushed as he leans down to nuzzle at Kent’s neck.

“You’re perfect, you know,” Kent replies, feeling heady with the haze of love and wonder—but those feelings are slanted in violent contrast to the distress that’s striping his brain. He can only force himself to ignore it, to live in the moment with Bitty’s body, still warm, against his hips.

When Bitty stills and comes with a quiet cry, Kent slows his movement just so he can listen to it, so he can watch Bitty shudder in his arms and imprint the broken sound of his name on Bitty’s lips into his memory. “Pa-arse,” Bitty sighs, “ _Parse_.”

Kent nearly chokes. He wants to cry.

Instead Bitty keeps moving on top of him, grasping at Kent’s hands and bringing them to Bitty’s own hips—and Kent follows him over the edge soon after, losing himself in the slick warmth of Bitty, clutching onto him for dear life and hoping, praying for some sort of miracle, the kind that would mean he wouldn’t have to give this up, wouldn’t have to let go of one of the nicest things he’s ever touched, held, loved. _God_.

Hell, maybe they should just run away together—but fuck. They can’t run, they don’t have the resources for that on their own, not to mention that he’d have to leave Jack behind—and leaving Jack behind is the one thing he won’t do at any cost. Even if it means— _fuck_.

He can already tell that he’s never going to be able to forgive himself for letting Bitty—letting him die. For fucking _killing_ him. It’d been hard the first time, impossible the second—how is he going to do it _now_ , when his heart gives a distorted thump every time Bitty walks into the room?

But if he and Jack don’t follow orders, what do they have left? At the very best, they’ll be stripped of their ranks and sent out on the most dangerous missions possible, left out in the field deep undercover for months—the kind of missions that no one comes back the same from. And at worst, the Heads could just decide to dispose of them entirely. Well, probably not Jack—they wouldn’t be so bold as to outright murder him, not with Jack’s dad still out there somewhere. But Kent—Kent, they could make an example of, and nobody would be able to say a thing because he’d be labelled as a traitor.

“Parse?” Bitty murmurs, jolting him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah?” Kent unsticks his jaw so he can speak, sliding briefly out of bed so he can discard his condom and hand Bitty a wad of tissues. Afterwards, he crawls back over to Bitty, collapsing half on top of him so that Bitty gives a surprised laugh and wraps his arms around Kent’s waist.

“You can say no,” Bitty starts, eyes going solemn. “But I’d like to know—um, would you tell me your name?”

Kent’s mouth feels dry—oh, _Bitty_. “It’s Kent,” he says without hesitating, feeling raw and open in the best kind of way as Bitty breaks into a smile. “Sometimes Zimms calls me Kenny.”

“Kent.” Bitty looks at him shyly. “Kenny. I like that. It fits you.”

Kent feels dizzy with affection, reaching up and stroking his thumb along the curve of Bitty’s jaw. And that’s when it really hits him—he’s going to have to say _goodbye_.

The tears come quickly then, spilling down his cheeks before he’s even aware he’s crying. “Sorry.” He wipes at his eyes, breath coming out shuddery. “I just—fuck.”

“Aww, don’t cry—you’re gonna make me—aw, hell.” Bitty’s smile trembles, and his eyes well up to match Kent’s.

Kent lets out a desperate laugh. “Look at u-us.” He shakes his head, pushing himself up onto one elbow and wiping at his eyes. “We’re a mess.”

“I know,” Bitty says, sniffling. “I-I—Kent…” His voice wobbles, and Kent presses their foreheads together even as his own eyes continue to leak. “I wish—I wish you were—mine,” Bitty admits morosely. “I shouldn’t e-even be _thinking_ about that right now—God, isn’t that silly of me?”

Of all the things Bitty’s worrying about, at least this is something that Kent can fix. He reaches down to find one of Bitty’s hands, tangling their hands together and nervously swallowing. “I’d be yours if you wanted me to,” he whispers honestly.

Bitty lets out a surprised sob. “I—th-thank you,” he smiles through his tears. “I won’t—I won’t do that to you, not when I’m about to—you know. B-but—it’s really nice to know,” he tells him, and Kent pulls him in for a tight embrace.

“I love you,” he says again, just because he can.

“I l-love you,” Bitty responds, and for now, it’s enough.

Now is all they have, after all.

Kent wishes he could hold him forever, but—but he has to ask, because he doesn’t think he can bear not knowing. “Did Zimms say—how long?”

Bitty stifles a cry. “He s-said by m-morning,” he gasps quietly.

Kent nods, stroking his back. “Okay—it’s okay, I won’t—we don’t have to talk about it. It’s okay,” he mumbles.

"I-it's okay. R-really.” Bitty tries for a smile—but fails, pressing his face into Kent’s shoulder as he shudders another sob. “Just—can I ask you for one last thing?”

“Of course,” he says, meaning it from the bottom of his soul. “Anything.”

“A-anything?” Bitty laughs shakily. “How ’b-bout—you don’t kill me?”

It takes Kent a moment to piece together that Bitty’s joking, and when he does, he gives a startled laugh. “You’re—ridiculous.”

“So’re you.” Bitty lets out a hiccup of a laugh. “But. Really, i-if you can—could you wait to do it ’til I fall asleep? I-I mean—could you let me die before I w-wake—?" His voice gets too choked to continue, but Kent hugs him tighter nonetheless.

“Yeah,” Kent whispers, emotions scalding him from the inside out, making his throat burn and his fingers feel weak. “That’s fine.”

He and Bitty get dressed with a heavy layer of melancholy permeating the air, taking time for slow kisses and as many little touches as Kent can get away with. He can tell that Bitty’s trying not to cry, and part of him is glad for that and part of him thinks it makes it even worse—he doesn’t want Bitty’s last feeling to be embarrassment or regret, so after they click the light off and climb into bed, Kent spoons him, slinging an arm loosely over his waist. It’s the easiest position to move out of without waking Bitty, especially since Kent’s going to have to get his kit later. Even with the cuddling, Bitty’s breath is coming irregularly as he tries to stifle his tears, so Kent closes his eyes and asks, “Want me to, uh, tell you a story or something?”

“S-sure.” Bitty nods.

“What do you wanna hear about?”

“H-hmm.” Bitty hiccups slightly. “Maybe—maybe about you and Zimms?”

“Huh, really? Okay,” Kent mumbles. “So—uh, hang on. Are you, um, in love with him too?”

Ah, fuck. He hadn’t really meant to ask that—it’d just slipped out of his mouth, words turning traitor instead of the anecdote he’d meant to tell about his time with Jack on the hockey team.

But Bitty laughs softly. “No,” he says, and it’s honest, Kent can tell. “I could fall in love with him, I think, but—not just yet. It’d take time.” He raises an eyebrow and playfully adds, “What, jealous?”

Kent snorts. “Jealous? Me? Not at all.” He exaggerates his syllables for dramatic effect, and Bitty laughs again—good, that’s progress. “I mean—maybe a little,” he corrects himself a second later, and at that Bitty actually smiles.

“Over lil ole me?” Bitty asks him, and his sniffling seems to have stopped.

“Of course. You’re the cutest fucking guy I’ve ever seen, you know,” Kent grins.

Bitty looks over his shoulder, and Kent can see him raise an eyebrow in the dim moonlight from the window. “You’re lying, aren’t ya?” Bitty accuses lightly.

“Actually—nah, not really.” Kent shrugs. “Like—I saw you out that night, and you were in shorts and your hair was nice and your legs were like—gorgeous. And then I realized that you were gonna see what was going on, and I got really fuckin’ sad.”

“Aww.” Bitty reaches back to pat his leg. “At least—at least I got to stick around for a little while, right?”

Kent holds his answer back, because he doesn’t want to make Bitty too sad again—but then Bitty slips his hand into Kent’s and the words fall out of his mouth anyway. “How am I gonna do this? I just—God, I love you. How do I—and I mean. I’ll figure it out, but. Fuck.”

Bitty gives his hand a small squeeze. “Well—third time’s the charm, h-huh?” His voice cracks a little.

A noise of distress escapes Kent’s throat. “That’s supposed to be for _good_ things.”

“Am I not a good thing?” Bitty asks, sounding suddenly vulnerable.

“Of course you are,” Kent reassures him. “You’re like, the best thing. You and Zimms.”

Bitty nods, and then they’re quiet after that, Kent matching the rhythm of Bitty’s breathing just so that he can feel just a little bit closer. The slow pace helps to keep him from panicking, he thinks, because he can feel the adrenaline and worry and sorrow building up under his skin even now.

He’s surprised Bitty can even think of falling asleep as it is. Kent thinks about telling his story now, but Bitty seems calmer now, and when Bitty next speaks his voice is tired, sluggish. “I’m real glad you guys have each other,” he mumbles, accent thick.

It takes three slow breaths for Kent to manage a response. “I’m glad, too,” he says simply, and Bitty makes a small noise of contentment.

Kent can feel it when Bitty starts to drift off—he gets a little squirmier than usual, and his breathing slows further before it evens out completely. Kent holds him for as long as he can bear, and then slowly, he sits up.

Bitty doesn’t move. He’s asleep.

Kent never does end up telling his story.


	9. Chapter 9

Jack jolts awake as Kent comes through the bedroom door and shuts it carefully behind him. Kent’s face is pale. He’s shaking.

Jack swallows hard, sitting up from where he’d been lying on the couch. “Did you—?”

Looking numb, Kent shakes his head. “Not y-yet. Didn’t have my kit with me,” he whispers, and Jack feels a sudden wave of relief—fuck, he doesn’t want Bitty to be gone, not at all, _damn it_. “I’m just gonna—go get it—” Kent takes a trembling step, another—and then he crumples to his knees.

Jack is on the floor with him, gathering Kent into his arms before he even knows what he’s doing. “Kent,” he murmurs, hugging him to his chest, “You don’t—if it’s too hard, you don’t have to—“

“ _No_!” Kent whispers harshly. “I’m gonna—I’m—g-gonna… Jack… it’s _Bitty_.” And then he starts sobbing, little silent movements that spasm through his whole body, tears bleeding through Jack’s shirt. Jack doesn’t know what to say, because he’s five seconds away from crying himself and he’s never been the best at giving comfort—but then Kent looks up at him and says, “I l-love him, Jack, I love him.”

The devastated whimper of his voice has tears pricking at Jack’s eyes too, and then he _is_ crying, fuck.

And oh, _God_ , Jack had been worried about that, about Kent being in love—he’d suspected, sure, but he was far more aware of Bitty’s feelings than he was of Kent’s. It was easy to detect the bright spark in Bitty’s eye whenever Kent came up in conversation, but with Kent—well, with Kent, Jack was usually far too distracted by his own feelings to pay attention to his thoughts about Kent and Bitty.

They’re in love.

They’re in love, and Kent is being forced to kill him.

“Fuck,” Jack shudders quietly, squeezing his eyes shut. He doesn’t know what to _do_.

Kent gasps a breath, then another. Suddenly, his body stills, and Jack’s heart seizes. “Oh my God,” Kent says, voice hollow. “They’re punishing me.”

“What?” Jack’s voice is shaky. “What do you mean?”

“For saving him in the first place.” Kent shakes his head, movement growing faster and faster. “They—fuck, this is all my own damn fault, I—I shouldn’t have—but then he would’ve _died_ , Jack, what the hell was I supposed to _do_?”

Jack puts his hands on Kent’s shoulders, trying as best as he can to steady Kent’s quivering body. “Kent—it’s not just you, okay? It was my fault too. Hell—I’d bet this is more of a—of a warning to me than you—oh, God.”

That’s when the realization comes, a stunning blow in his brain that has shock swelling within him.

“What?” Kent’s brow trembles as it knits together, like he sees the fear in Jack’s posture and is scared because of it.

“This—this isn’t just for saving Bitty,” Jack says, the words tasting bitter and acrid on his tongue. “This is for—for saving you, too.”

“Saving me?” Kent blinks at him. “What do you mean? By not letting me kill him?”

Slowly, Jack shakes his head. “No. I mean—like, actually saving you. Back at the beginning. When your dad died.”

“Jack—I don’t understand,” Kent frowns, tears still shimmering in his eyes. “The Schooners weren’t trying to kill me—they just kept me hostage. What’re you talking about?”

And then, suddenly, Jack realizes why Kent doesn’t understand. “Christ,” he says, staring at Kemt. “You never knew.”

“Never knew _what_?” Kent grabs his arm, breath coming fast, and Jack would bet anything that he’s already figured it out.

“Fuck—Kent—” Jack starts, something akin to the tepid taste of blood growing on his tongue. “God, I… You… you were supposed to die with your father.”

Now it’s out there, and he can’t take it back.

_Fuck_.

The blood drains out of Kent’s face. “No,” he says, “No—you said that they took me because I—I showed promise or some shit like that, fuck, Jack, why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“I thought you knew!” Jack puts his hands on Kent’s shoulders, trying to make him understand. “Anyway, you _did_ show promise. It’s how I convinced my dad to—not to kill you.” He feels his voice goes soft at the end, and Kent gives a surprised sob. “Kent—what’s wrong?” he asks, because Kent’s getting more upset and he can’t tell at all what he’s thinking.

“They didn’t even _want_ me,” Kent says, wrapping his arms around himself. “All this time—and they just wanted to get rid of me, just like him— _fuck_ , Jack, why aren’t I dead? Why does he have to d-die, and not m-me— _why?_ ”

Jack’s about to open his mouth and say ‘ _because you didn’t flub a mission,’_ but then he realizes with startling clarity that—Kent _had_. It’d been a small task, but an important one—just a single target, a guy named Antoine, who they’d needed to separate from the rest of his lackeys before they could kill him. And it was an accident, but Kent had let a piece of intel slip, one that nearly sabotaged their cover and could’ve blown the whole mission. But the Heads simply gave Kent a stern talking to, and then that was that—barely a slap on the wrist. It was so unremarkable that Jack had forgotten about it almost immediately after, because that was right before—

That’d been right before Kent had found out about his father.

“Kent,” Jack whispers, his stomach turning to stone. “How did you figure out about—about what my dad did in the first place?”

Kent’s face twists in confusion. “Uhh, I d-dunno—oh, nah, w-wait. When I went to mission debrief—uhh, the Antoine mission, I think? Anyway, y-your dad wasn’t there, and Hall mentioned—kinda l-like an offhand comment.”

Jack stares at him. “Christ. Kent—they leaked it on _purpose_.”

“I—w-what?” Kent’s jaw drops. “I—fuck— _why_? And anyway, what does that even m-matter? The Heads are ruthless fuckers. Just a-ask Ollie and Wicks.”

Jack’s head is spinning. “Give me a second.” He holds up a hand to stop Kent’s questions, because everything is starting to slot as neatly into place as a knife in its sleeve.

The Heads told Kent on purpose, inadvertently setting him on the spiral that nearly made him drink himself to death—but had it _really_ been inadvertent?

And now, Bitty. Bitty, whose phone they’d bugged just so they could catch him in case he slipped up—

Almost like they’d expected it to happen.

Jack had chalked it up to mere paranoia before, but what if—what if.

There’s a small thought niggling in the corner of his brain, begging Jack to pull it out and stare it in the face, so he does. And right there, unfolding in the center of all of this mess, is the question: what if Bitty had been set up?

The _fuck_.

Jack knows immediately that it’s not something they can prove—the Heads will almost certainly deny a direct accusation. He’ll never be able to tell what’s real or fake, just like it’s impossible to prove the intent behind leaking the story of Kent’s dad’s death.

But he’s been trained all his life to look for patterns in people, to find out what makes them tick so he can exploit it out in the field. He’s not great with dealing with feelings, but his skill at reading motivations is a different beast, one he’s tamed and kept in his pocket so that he can let it loose on target after target.

And the part of his intuition that knows exactly how a target will react to something in the field—that’s the part that’s telling him that this is wrong, all wrong.

The Heads—they didn’t _want_ Bitty to succeed on this mission.

“Jack—are you okay?” Kent asks, voice small. “What’s going on?”

Jack looks at him then, looks at him and thinks of a young man in the holding cell, curled up asleep next to his dad, tear tracks on his face just like now. Jack thinks of the way he himself had gone to his father and begged, pleaded with him not to kill Kent, to spare at least his life if not his dad’s.

When Jack thinks of his father, the happiest memories are of him talking about his wife—Jack’s mother—of him telling Jack stories of how beautiful and kind she was, of how he wanted nothing more than to go and find her again someday. Jack’s father knew love like no one else Jack’s ever met—except maybe Kent, and now Bitty.

When Jack had asked his father to let Kent live, his father had sighed and said he’d think about it, but when the next morning came, Jack looked over at the spare bed in his room and saw Kent there, blissfully asleep. Jack’s father had known love, had probably seen it in Jack’s eyes as he’d cried that night, and Kent had survived because of it. He shared a room with Jack for a year, trained with him and chose knife wielding as his specialty even though barely anyone did that anymore, just because he wanted to be _the best_ at something. And he was. Kent is almost better than Jack out in the field, so muck that it sometimes makes Jack frighteningly jealous.

But now they’re here, teetering on the brink of death—the death of another young man who once sat in that holding cell with tears on his face.

Jack stopped Kent from dying, once.

Why can’t he save Bitty too?

His tongue feels sluggish as he opens his mouth to speak. “I can’t say for certain, but—damnit. I think… I think we were set up.”

Kent stares at him. “What?”

“I don’t think we can prove it, but. Didn’t Chowder have to hack into those phones before he gave them to us?”

Slowly, Kent nods. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Wouldn’t he have noticed a hidden recording device?” Jack asks him.

“Depends on how it was hidden—but yeah, probably.” Kent’s brow furrows. “Unless Chowder was the one who hid it?”

“No—I don’t think so.” Jack shakes his head. “He gets orders through our chain of command, so I would’ve heard about it.”

Kent sits back on his heels. “So—what are you suggesting?” He squints at Jack.

And oh, _God_.

What he’s about to suggest will most certainly get him into trouble.

What he’s about to suggest is mutiny.

Jack is strictly not a rule-breaker—the very thought makes his hands go clammy, makes him want to shiver all over. Even sleeping with Kent makes him feel guilty, makes him worry that someone might find out and get them in trouble even though nearly everyone in the complex has broken the ‘no relationships’ rule at some point or another.

But—but this is more important than the rules and regulations. This is saving Bitty, and by default, saving Kent from breaking down completely, from grieving about a life that doesn’t need to be lost. If he doesn’t do something to stop this, Kent might not ever look Jack in the eyes again, might even sever their relationship completely.

That’s the one thing that Jack desperately can’t deal with.

And—and Jack just really fucking doesn’t want Bitty to die. The only way Jack’s been getting by without bending, breaking, snapping in half is by pretending Bitty’s just another faceless target, someone he’s barely talked to instead of someone he’s trained, laughed with, made love to. But Bitty is _all_ of those things, someone Jack wouldn’t hesitate to confide in, someone whose laughter feels like sunshine, someone who Jack _cares_ about.

Jack can’t do it.

He can’t let Bitty die.

He sucks in a breath and opens his mouth. “I think they’re lying about the bug,” he says bluntly, his hands clenching into fists. “I don’t know how they knew about the fourth person, but either way, they hid it from us.”

“That wouldn’t make sense.” Kent bites his lip. “Unless—unless the target was a plant?”

“Oh my God,” Jack mouths, stunned. “You think?”

“I—” Kent cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I dunno anymore. Would they even do that?”

Jack’s mouth tightens. “At this point? I’d believe it,” he growls, anger sparking hot in his fingertips. “I don’t know if we can trust them. This was just too convenient of a circumstance, and I think—” He takes a breath, licks his lips, and utters the words, the ones that mean he’s going off the deep end of insubordinance—“Kent. I think you need to take Bitty and run.”

He’s expecting to see relief in Kent’s eyes, but instead Kent sighs darkly and shakes his head. “No,” he says quietly. “That’s not gonna work.”

“Why not?” Jack asks, caught off guard.

“I’ve already thought about it—we can’t. There’s no way we’d get outta here without anyone noticing, Jack. And where would we even go? ‘Sides, I’m not leaving you behind.”

“I’ll be fine without you—” Jack tries to say.

But Kent cuts in immediately. “No. I mean—you might be, I guess, but… Jack, I’m not gonna be fine without _you_.”

Jack’s jaw tightens. “Look. You love him, right? Save him. Please. It’s the only option—you have to go. If I took him and left, they’d—they’d _kill_ you, you realize?”

Kent shudders a small sob. “I kn-know. And—I do love him, but fuck, Jack, I love _you_ too.”

Jack’s heart flips in his chest, and he looks away. He should say it back.

He should say it, but—that’s not exactly going to convince Kent to leave him behind, is it?

Despite his internal turmoil, it seems like Kent already knows exactly what he’s thinking. “Jack,” Kent says quietly. “Bitty—Bitty said something, when we were talking earlier.”

Jack looks up at him, and Kent looks—nervous. And oh God, it’s entirely plausible that Bitty might’ve told him already. Kent could know right at this moment just how strongly Jack feels about him.

So there’s no use hiding it, then. “What did he say?” he asks anyway, even though he’s sure he already knows the answer.

“He said—he said I should ask you about your feelings,” Kent says, the words tumbling out in a rush. “So, uh? I’m asking.”

Well, that’s that. Jack can’t avoid it now, not with Kent looking at him like that, cheeks slightly red and his irises a rare clear blue that almost matches Jack’s own, eyebrows knit together in a way that makes Jack want to take his thumb and smooth out the creases.

So it’s easier than he’d thought it would be to open his mouth and say, “I’m pretty sure that I—um. I love you.”

Kent’s eyes go wide. He lets out a breathy laugh, running his hand through his cowlick. “I—wow. Really? I didn’t think you’d actually—say it.”

It feels almost wrong to be smiling right now, but Jack can’t help it, can’t help the warm, delighted pulse of his heart as he leans in to kiss Kent, to press soft affection into his skin. “Sorry I didn’t say before,” he mumbles against Kent’s mouth.

Kent shakes his head. “’S fine. Besides—now I know I can’t leave you, yeah?”

“But—” A flash of fear lances through Jack’s chest, fear for Bitty—but when Kent draws back, he’s smiling.

“You know—that means we’ll all just have to run away together,” Kent says easily. And God, even though it’s an impossible task, the matter-of-fact tone of his words almost makes Jack want to believe that they could pull it off.

But—that’s just it. It’s impossible. Fuck. Jack shakes his head. “Getting two of us out of here without anyone noticing would be—difficult, at best. All three of us? That’s not gonna work.”

Kent’s smile fades.

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

Kent takes a shuddery breath. “Please tell me— _please_ tell me we’re not gonna kill Bitty. Like. If we’re gonna have to—I can’t keep hoping like this, Jack, I’m gonna l-lose it,” he chokes out, and Jack pulls him back in for a hug, his own breath hitching.

“God, Kent.” He grits his teeth together. “I’m so, so, s-sorry—I don’t wanna make a promise I can’t keep.”

“B-but—” Kent’s chest heaves. “ _Bitty_.”

“I know, I know.” Jack’s throat seizes up tight, like he’s choking on the very air he’s breathing.

“He was trying—he was trying to _save_ someone, Jack. I’m—fuck, I’m gonna miss him s-so _much_ ,” Kent gasps out, wiping his face on his arm. It doesn’t help much—the tears keep coming anyway.

“I know. Me too,” Jack closes his eyes, and they sit there for what feels like forever, hunched in the floor, clinging to each other.

Jack doesn’t know what to _do_.

If this is the price they pay for saving people, what good is there left in this world?

He’s not sure how long they’ve been sitting there when Kent shudders a sigh and says, “I g-guess—I’ll go get my kit.”

He staggers to his feet. Jack watches him stand, watches him take shaky steps toward the door, all the while feeling like his own chest is caving in—he wants to tell Kent to stop, not to do it, even though he’s literally Kent’s boss, even though they _have_ to do it—they’ve been ordered to do it—they—goddamnit. _God_ _fucking damnit_.

Kent leaves the room, and the click of the door shutting rings in Jack’s ears, plaguing him as he retreats to the couch.

Everything is going to shit.

Perhaps one of the worst parts about this—besides the fact that he’s losing an agent, a partner, a friend—is that this might’ve all been going to shit for a very long while. Jack is never going to be able to trust the Heads again. The whole fucking Aces institution is built on their guidance, but now that the seeds of his suspicion have been planted, he remembers the whispers of the other agents in a brand new light—the dissent had been strongest right after Ollie and Wicks had been punished, but a fearful undercurrent has persisted for a lot longer than that, all the way since before his father had left. Jack had just—ignored it.

And then there were the other rumors. The ones that started after their most devastating mission to date, where they’d lost an agent called Sweets in a brutal accident—her partner had never been the same afterwards. The loss had shaken them all to the core, even Jack, who hadn’t known either of the women very well. But the rumors after that mission—those rumors were different. They were quiet, insidious in the way they lurked in corners and disappeared whenever Jack walked in the room, like maybe everyone thought he’d tattle to the Heads if he found out about them.

The worst part, the part that makes Jack feel sick to his stomach, is that there was a time when he _would_ have reported the rumors. He’d had trouble caring about much else than work back then, back before his father left his position, before Kent found out about everything and nearly burned their relationship to the ground. It took weeks of not speaking to Kent for Jack to realize that he was _lonely_ , and only then did he slowly come to understand that some things were far more precious than climbing the ranks of a job he’d stopped truly caring about long ago.

And Kent came _back_. Jack had kind of expected Kent to stay away forever, but then Jack found him crying and went to hold him and Kent had _let_ him. Jack wouldn’t have blamed Kent for pushing him far, far away—but then, Jack is still honestly surprised that Kent had forgiven him at all, even now that their relationship is better than it’s ever been. Jack eventually chalked it up to gratitude for the life debt, for saving Kent from his dad’s and the Ace’s—but wait.

_Wait_.

The life debt that Kent—didn’t know existed?

But that means—God, Kent had just _forgiven_ him without any excuses in play. He hadn’t felt indebted to Jack at all, had he?

All this time, Jack thought that Kent’d only stuck around because Jack is the reason that Kent’s still alive. But no. That wasn’t it. Which has to mean… Kent really loves him. He really, really loves him.

Huh.

Jack isn’t quite sure he’d fully believed that until right this second.

Kent loves him.

Jack loves him back.

But—but Kent loves Bitty too, and Jack has backed himself into another damn corner, just like the first time—because Jack can’t let Bitty die.

He just—he _can’t_.

But then how is he going to fix this?

The Aces complex is his home. It’s the only place he’s ever really known, loved, the only place where he’s always felt like he fits in.

He hated the brief time he spent away in high school, when his dad had insisted he get a ‘ _taste of the real world_ ’—he’d detested all of it except for hockey. And, well, Kent.

Leaving here would be harder than anything he’s ever done.

But leaving would mean that he gets to keep Kent and Bitty both alive and whole and maybe even happy. And that—that’s worth almost anything.

Jack puts his head in his hands and frantically starts to plan.

xXx

“Kent—hold on.”

“I’ve gotta do it _now_. I can’t—I can’t do it otherwise—just let me _go_!”

“ _Kent_.”

Bitty blinks his eyes awake at the sound of voices just outside his door—and oh no, oh _God_ —the fear hits him dead center, like landing a skating jump wrong and slamming straight into the ice.

_He’s not dead yet_. At any minute, Kent’s going to come in with his kit and syringe, and Bitty’s going to have to be _awake_ for it all, to watch Kent suffer while he takes Bitty’s arm and—no, no, not again.

Why couldn’t he just have _stayed asleep_?

The door opens. He jolts at the noise, and fuck, he can’t even _pretend_ to still be sleeping anymore so he reluctantly opens his eyes. Kent and Zimms are both standing there, Zimms with one hand on Kent’s wrist and Kent with his face twisted in misery, kit in his other hand.

“Oh—fuck. You’re awake,” Kent says.

Bitty is paralyzed. Death has taken the face of his lover, and he’s staring it right in the eyes, willing it with all of his might to drop its gaze and leave him _alone_.

He can’t pretend to be okay any longer.

“P-please.” Bitty’s voice cracks, “Please d-don’t—I’m so s-scared, I— _I don’t w-want to die_!”

“ _Bitty_.” Kent’s lip trembles, but Zimms interrupts him.

“No,” Zimms says. “You’re not going to.”

Both Bitty and Kent turn to stare at him in shock. “W-what?” Kent asks, eyes wide.

“I don’t—I can’t let you kill him,” Zimms says quietly. “I don’t _want_ you to kill him—Bitty. I can’t let you die. You’re too—important to him. And—to me too, I think. But…” He falters, lips growing tight at the looks of utter surprise that Bitty and Kent are giving him. “But I need—help. I’m trying to figure this out, but I don’t know how the hell we’re going to pull it off.”

Bitty swallows thickly. He thinks he might be in shock. “P-pull off—what?”

Zimms bites his lip. “Well. I think it’s about time we retire, don’t you think?”

There’s two seconds of tense silence before Kent drops his kit and throws his arms around Zimms. “Fuck— _really?_ Like, really, really? Oh my God. I thought we couldn’t all— _God_.” He shakes his head, and Bitty’s heart swells in elation.

He’s not—going to die?

They’re not going to kill him.

“Yeah,” Zimms says, and there’s a softness in his face that he only seems to get when he looks at Kent. “This is the only way, isn’t it?”

“Then— _oh_.” Kent straightens up, turning his head to look at Bitty—and before Bitty knows it, Kent is springing himself at him, and he doesn’t even flinch when Kent wraps his arms around him with a shaky smile. “Thank _fuck_. I— _Bitty_ ,” he says, “Bitty, Bitty—I love you, oh God, I love you.”

“Yes—yes, me t-too.” Bitty nods, tears springing to his eyes—but they’re happy ones this time, as Zimms comes to stand above them with a faint smile on his lips. “I love you too,” Bitty whispers, burying his face in Kent’s neck.

He’s okay. He’s okay and warm and in love. Lord, he’s so stunned with happiness that he doesn’t know what to do with himself except hold on tight to Kent.

He’s—he’s not going to die. He’s _safe_.

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Zimms cautions, and Bitty looks up to see an anxious expression on his face. “I don’t actually know if it’s possible to run away. I’ve got my car, but they’re going to notice really quickly if we make one wrong move, and at any rate there’s nowhere to hide in the real world where they couldn’t find us.”

“Oh,” Bitty says, and then all the fear comes rushing back—Lord, getting caught sounds almost _worse_. Even if they escape, he won’t know if they’ll ever be safe again—oh God, oh _God_ —

“Bitty—Bitty, shh, it’s okay,” Kent says, and it’s as he’s rubbing Bitty’s back that Bitty realizes he’d been hyperventilating. “We’ll figure something out.”

“But _how_?” Bitty asks, because now that Zimms has pointed out all the ways their plan could fail, Bitty’s not sure how they’re supposed to have any hope left.

Zimms squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing at his temples. “I don’t know.”

“Fuck,” Kent swears, exhaling sharply and sitting up. “What’re we— _fuck_.”

And then there’s a knock on the door of Zimms’ suite.

All three of them sit up at once. “Fuck,” Zimms swears. “Do you think they’d—check?”

“I dunno.” Kent grimaces. “Fuck, okay. I’ll stay in here with him. Just—you go answer it.”

Bitty clings to Kent as Zimms nods reluctantly, walking out into the living room and out of sight.

The seconds tick by, drilling the tension into Bitty’s bones, and then the door opens.

“Uhh,” Zimms says.

“Zimms—what _changed_?” says the voice at the door, and Bitty _knows_ that voice. He spoke to that man earlier today, actually, at the party—and maybe his head’s feeling better, now there’s been time for him to rest.

“What do you mea— _hey_ ,” Zimms says crossly, and then Johnson pushes into the bedroom and stares at Bitty, eyes still obscured by his sunglasses.

“Um. Hi?” Bitty questions, staring at his roommate.

“My headache’s gone.” Johnson cocks his head confusedly.

“I—well, um. That’s good?” Bitty questions.

Slowly, Johnson starts to nod. “You guys need help.”

“What the fuck?” Kent squints. “How’d you—you know what, never mind. Fuck yeah, we need help.”

“Parse—” Zimms says crossly. “We shouldn’t—”

“Zimms. He’s _offering_.” Kent stands, gesturing wildly at Johnson. “I don’t honestly give a fuck about letting other people know. These guys aren’t the enemy, you know. They’re not gonna tell on us.”

Zimms sucks in a breath—and then he nods. “Okay,” he says carefully. “What do you think we should do?” He aims the question at Johnson, and Johnson tilts his head to look up at the ceiling.

“You need Lardo,” he pronounces after a moment of thought. “She’ll lead you to the others. I can’t say everything. But—I’ll pack you a bag.” He gestures at Bitty.

Startled Bitty nods. “Um—wow, thanks,” he says, offering a cautious smile at Johnson.

“There are very few reasons for a plot device that doesn’t help the protagonist,” Johnson says cryptically, and then he turns and leaves the room.

They all stare after him. “Well,” Kent says. “I guess—Lardo?”

“Yeah.” Zimms nods. “Go get her.”

xXx

“So what you’re saying is that you think the Heads orchestrated a secret movement to make Bitty fail, cause his death, and somehow teach you guys a lesson?”

Lardo is sitting cross-legged on the couch, posture poised as she raises her eyebrows at where the three of them are sitting at Zimms’ table.

“Sounds—ridiculous, I know.” Zimms wrinkles his nose. “But yes.”

“And the plan is to run, but you don’t have any idea whatsoever about how to do that?”

“Uhh. Yes.” Zimms nods again.

Lardo snorts. “Why the fuck didn’t you come and get me in the first place? This is easy,” she hops up, starting to pace around the room.

“Shit—really?” Kent asks, sitting up straighter in his chair.

“Tch. Of course.” Lardo shrugs. “You’ve got money—Shitty should probably have Bitty’s first payment, by the way, since that’s how payroll routes it. The Heads won’t have wanted to let on that something was up by holding off on the payment process or anything like that. And you two,” she points at Kent and Zimms, “—are fucking rich, aren’t you? So money’s not a problem. The problem is that you’re trying to hide, when really, you should be putting yourself in as obvious of a position as possible.”

Zimms raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“See, the quieter you are, the easier it’s gonna be to eliminate you without a fuss. But if you’re out there in the world, making connections, people are going to _notice_ if all three of you disappear. Which means you need to integrate yourselves into society as fast as possible.”

“Really?” Bitty asks.

“Sure. They’re not going to aim at you when pulling the trigger would expose their own asses,” Lardo points out, crossing her arms.

“So—how are we gonna do that?” Kent asks, brow wrinkling.

At that, Lardo shrugs. “You’re gonna have to figure that out for yourselves. Think you can get a job that quickly?”

“Not really.” Zimms frowns. “I find it kind of hard to believe that _one_ of us could become employed fast enough, let enough all three.”

“That’s gonna be your obstacle then.” Lardo flops back down on the couch. “Once you figure it out, we can start getting you outta here.”

“Fuck.” Kent sighs. “I’ve got nothing.”

They sit in dismal silence, mulling it over anxiously. Bitty looks at both Kent and Zimms and tries to imagine meeting them in a place that’s not here. He thinks about everything he knows about them—they’re assassins, first and foremost, but most of that isn’t really applicable outside of the Aces. And Kent and Zimms used to play hockey, but besides joining a team, that doesn’t really make sense either—

Wait.

There are adult hockey leagues… and then there are college hockey teams.

_College_.

Would it—be possible?

Hope swells up in his chest, and he tries as best as he can not to let it rise too high—there’s every chance that this could be shot down right off the bat.

But he sits straight up, eyes wide. “I might have an idea?”

“Go on,” Zimms prompts.

“Okay, so this might seem—um, silly. ’Cuz you guys are older? But—what if we like, enrolled at a college? I mean—I was plannin’ on goin’ anyway, before all this happened. And then you guys maybe could play hockey or something.” Bitty shrugs.

“Bits,” Kent stares at him, “That’s _brilliant_. Does that work?” he swiftly turns his head to look at Lardo.

“Don’t see why it wouldn’t.” She nods appraisingly. “Hmm, let’s see. It’d be way easier to hack your identities into a college database than it would be to put you—well, just about _anywhere_ else, just cuz undergrad classes have so many people. That’s well within Dex’s ability, honestly, and he could probably get you onto a hockey team if you really wanted to play. It’s also definitely gonna put you in the public eye. As long as you talk to people, it’s going to be obvious if you guys disappear, and tuition money won’t be an issue either—ah, shit, except maybe for Bitty.” Her brow wrinkles.

“He’ll be fine. I’ve got it,” Kent says immediately, waving his hand in dismissal.

“Hang on! But—” Bitty starts to say.

But then Kent leans over and takes his chin, and _oh Lord_ , kisses him soundly on the lips. “I’ve got your back, okay?”

“ _Um!_ ” Bitty squeaks. “I—thanks.” He pulls away slowly, a flush burning on his cheeks, and chances a look over at Lardo. But she doesn’t seem put off by it—if anything, she looks ecstatic, a smug grin on her face.

“Ha! I thought so,” Lardo crows. “When did that happen, hmm?”

Kent looks to the ceiling in thought. “Uhh, officially? Today,” he murmurs, a little smile on his face.

The meaning trickles slowly into Bitty’s brain. “Wait—really?” he widens his eyes at Kent.

“Yeah. Except—unless you don’t wanna? Sorry, I assumed from earlier…” Kent’s lips twist, and oh goodness, he looks a little hurt.

“No! I mean—I do? Want to? I—um. Good Lord.” Bitty stares down at the table, embarrassed.

“Bitty?” Kent says softly, and when Bitty looks at him, he’s beaming. “What I said before about, um, being yours if you wanted? That still stands. So, if you wanna…” He shrugs. “I’m here.”

This time, even with the flush in his cheeks, it’s easy to grin back shyly, to reach over and take Kent’s hand and say, “I’d like that.”

And then Bitty’s all caught up in Kent’s eyes, shivering pleasantly as Kent leans in to kiss him—but it lasts barely a moment before Zimms clears his throat—and right, shit, _Zimms_. Not to mention they’re in the middle of a literal life-and-death strategy meeting and Lardo’s also sitting right there, Lord.

But Zimms just sounds surprised and a little confused when he asks, “Are you guys—what just happened?”

“I—fuck. Sorry, Zimms,” Kent mumbles, tone stilted with awkwardness. “I guess—we’re dating, now?”

“Oh,” Zimms blinks. “I—that’s fine. That’s really great, actually.” And now he’s _smiling_ —and goodness, Bitty hadn’t expected that at all, this casual, easy acceptance.

But when Zimms catches Bitty’s eye, there’s a bit of sadness lingering there, the kind that hints at the definite need for some sort of conversation later. Bitty wonders what will come of that—if Zimms is jealous or if he’s just sad.

Kent clears his throat then, interrupting Bitty’s thoughts. “We should probably, um. Finish the meeting,” he suggests, eyes flicking to Lardo, who’s examining her nails with a wide grin.

But as Lardo looks up and starts talking again, Kent reaches over and slips his fingers into Zimms’ on top of the table, squeezing tight. Zimms looks at Kent, then Bitty, and Bitty watches as Zimms smiles squeezes back.

They’ll discuss their relationship later, Bitty knows, but for now he simply leans over, putting his hand on top of where Kent and Zimms’ are linked.

xXx

The hardest part is the waiting.

They’d gotten lucky—news of Bitty’s purported death won’t spread till morning—that is, if it spreads at all considering that they’ll hopefully be gone by then. But Kent and Zimms both immediately agree that Bitty isn’t allowed to join them on their trip to the training center.

“There are other people of my rank who could’ve easily heard about my meeting with the Heads,” Zimms ruffles his hair. “Sorry, bud.”

Bitty huffs a sigh—if anything, he wishes he could go to the mess hall and bake a pie, but he doesn’t even know if there’s time for that. “Fine,” he acquiesces, slumping back in his chair.

“And, um—just so you know, you probably shouldn’t fall asleep,” Kent tells him. “We’re gonna need you alert, and hopefully this isn’t gonna take more than an hour.”

Ugh, he can’t even nap—Bitty sighs. “Come back fast,” he warns, and Kent stoops to kiss him on the cheek.

“We will.”

Lardo stands from her perch on the couch. “We’re gonna need official names for you guys to put on the paperwork, by the way.”

Zimms hums contemplatively. “Right.” He turns to Bitty. “Try and think of one for yourself. We can’t use your old identity, ’cuz that’s gonna seem weird to the authorities considering you’re probably still on some of the ‘missing’ lists from two months ago—but I think it’s fine for you to keep your first name.”

“Um, okay,” Bitty blinks. “What should I do for my last name?”

“I’ve always planned on making a play on my nickname,” Kent pipes up. “Like, just adding to Parse—Parson is a last name, isn’t it?”

“Huh,” Bitty nods. Kent Parson. It fits him, and Bitty smiles a little. “That’s kinda nice.”

“I’m doing the same thing with mine,” Zimms shrugs. “Zimmermann is believable enough.”

“What’s—your first name? If you don’t mind telling?” Bitty asks carefully.

Zimms raises his eyebrows. “Well, you’re gonna find out soon anyway, so it’s probably fine. It’s Jack. Kinda boring, eh?” He smiles.

“Jack,” Kent says softly, almost like a prayer, and Jack flushes brightly. Kent laughs at that, inclining his head toward Bitty. “It’s not boring when he does that every time you say it.”

“Huh.” Bitty grins. “Jack?” he tries, and Jack groans and covers his face.

“Stop it, guys,” he grumbles. “We’ve got a mission to run.”

“You _would_ be thinking of it as a mission,” Kent teases, walking over to grab his kit from Jack’s bedroom doorway.

“Shut it, Kent.” Jack rolls his eyes. “Anyway—Bitty. Have you thought of a name?”

Bitty swallows. “Um, well. My first name’s Eric,” he offers, wrinkling his nose slightly—it sounds weird on his lips now. “But I still dunno what to do for my last name.”

“Eric,” Kent says. “Huh.”

Bitty shudders. “Eww. Sounds weird to have you calling me that.”

Kent laughs at that. “What, you gonna keep going by Bitty?”

“Yeah, sure.” Bitty shrugs, flushing. “I like it.”

“Well, we’re gonna have to make it part of your last name then, for that to make sense,” Kent muses.

“Can you do it?” Bitty asks. “I’m no good at the whole naming thing.”

“Hmm, okay,” Kent says, a slow grin growing on his face. “Well, since you’re little—“

“I am _not_.”

“He really isn’t,” Lardo cuts in with a raised brow.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Kent laughs. “Isn’t Bittle a last name? Like, Bitty plus little?”

Bitty thinks about it. “Eric Bittle,” he says, testing the syllables in his mouth. “I—yeah, I think I like that.”

“It suits you.” Kent grins. “Are we good on the name front, Jack?”

Jack nods approvingly. “Yeah, I think that’s all we need.”

“You guys ready?” Lardo says from by the door, aiming a reassuring smile at Bitty when they lock eyes. He smiles back, and then Lardo seems to remember something—“Oh! Hey, you should sign a piece of paper saying that it’s fine for these two to retrieve your paycheck. Shitty’s gonna be a stickler about it otherwise.”

Bitty snorts. “All right,” he agrees, and by the time he scrawls _Bitty_ on a piece of paper, awkward because he’s not used to writing it in cursive, Kent and Jack are both ready to leave.

“We’ll be back,” Jack assures him.

The door shuts behind them soon after, and Bitty’s left to his own devices. He checks around Jack’s kitchen for anything resembling baking ingredients, but the best he can find is a refrigerated can of croissant dough. On a closer look, it seems to be expired, and Bitty sighs and chucks it into the trash can, resorting to flopping down on the couch.

A moment later, a knock comes on the door, and Bitty freezes up. _Oh God_. He hadn’t been expecting anyone to come back so soon, and besides, Kent or Jack would probably use the key if they’d forgotten something—Lord, maybe this is someone coming back to finish him off, to get to him while Kent and Jack are preoccupied, oh _Lord_ —

He has to go check.

He tiptoes over to look into the peephole, heart pounding—oh.

It’s just Johnson. _Right_. He breathes a sigh of relief as he opens the door, shutting it quickly as Johnson enters with a smile.

“Here you go.” Johnson hands him a small duffel bag. “That should have all the clothes that were in our room.”

“Thanks,” Bitty says as he takes it. It feels strangely light, until he considers that probably half of his wardrobe is somewhere on Kent’s floor. He’ll have to collect his clothing later if he gets the chance.

“So—I guess this is goodbye, dude.” Johnson holds out his hand.

Bitty smiles, shaking it firmly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a great roommate,” he apologizes ruefully.

“Nah, no worries.” Johnson shrugs. “I prefer the room to myself anyway. ’Sides, you’ve got protag powers. You can do whatever you want.”

“Um—okay?” Bitty blinks at him. “Thanks, I guess.”

“No problem.” Johnson gives him a small salute, reaching for the door handle.

“Wait—” Bitty stops him. “Umm. If your headache’s gone, what’s with the sunglasses?”

“Oh,” Johnson says, and he reaches up and takes them off. He’s got lovely blue eyes, but the right one is duller than the other, and right across that eye is a scarred slash that Bitty can’t help but gasp softly at. “Field injury,” Johnson explains. “This eye’s fake. Sometimes it freaks people out because it doesn’t move with the other one, but I’ve gotten used to it.”

“I think you look fine,” Bitty tells him sincerely.

Johnson smiles. “Huh. I’ll have to think about showing my face more often, I guess.”

“You should!” Bitty gives an encouraging nod.

Johnson’s smile widens endearingly. “By the way,” he says, reaching for the door handle once more. “My aunt Nancy said to tell you goodbye. Well—she’s my step-aunt, but whatever,” he clarifies, waving a hand through the air.

Bitty is more confused than he’s ever been in his lifetime, but he doesn’t get a chance to say anything beyond, “Oh, her too!” before Johnson leaves, closing the door behind him.

The next half hour or so is excruciating. Kent and Jack hadn’t told Bitty their plans, so he has no idea how much danger they’re in—what if someone finds out that they’re planning on turning traitor, on breaking out of the complex and fleeing the Aces’ reach? Bitty paces back and forth across Jack’s floor, worrying continuously, wishing with all of his heart that this will turn out okay.

When the door finally opens, he jumps about a foot in the air, whipping his head over to look—but it’s just Jack. “Hey,” Jack says, jerking a thumb toward the hallway, and Bitty peeks out to see Lardo standing there. “Go with Lardo to Kent’s room so you can pack the rest of your stuff. It won’t take me long to get mine, so hurry.”

“I will!” Bitty gives a jerky nod, darting out to where Lardo’s already started walking toward the elevator.

“You nervous?” she asks him, patting him comfortingly on the arm when he nods. “Don’t be. For all intents and purposes, this is relatively safe, and as long as someone doesn’t leak what’s happening, you guys should be fine.”

“Who all knows?” Bitty bites his lip.

“Shitty, so he could deal with payroll without it being too much of a red flag. Me, obviously, and then Dex and Nursey—Dex is working on getting you into the system, creating identities, that sort of thing, and Nursey’s forging your documents.”

“Wait—did they pick a school already?” Bitty wonders.

“Yeah.” Lardo smiles. “I think you’ll like it, don’t worry. You were gonna go to college back at home, right?”

“Mhmm.” Bitty nods. Ice skating unfortunately hadn’t been enough to get him a scholarship anywhere, so he’d settled for going in-state. But God, more than anything he’d wished he could leave Georgia altogether.

It looks like he’s finally getting the chance.

“I kinda wish I had gotten a degree,” Lardo laments as she presses the button for the elevator. “Sounds like it would’ve been fun. I could’ve studied art.”

Bitty gives her a sympathetic look. “Aww, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sad on my account.” She elbows him with a smile. “I’m happy for you guys. Sad that you’re leaving, but—” She cuts off, and Bitty realizes that she’s tearing up.

“Gosh—Lardo, are you okay?” He leans over to give her the best hug he can manage. Of all of the people he’s met here, Lardo’s the one that he thinks is closest to Jack and Kent both—he hadn’t even _thought_ about what it would be like for everyone here after they leave.

The elevator dings, and they step in as Lardo wipes her eyes. “It’s fine.” She shakes her head. “I’ll just have to go bother Shitty more often.”

“ _Bother_ him.” Bitty gives her a knowing grin.

“Yeah.” Lardo’s expression softens as she adds, “I’m gonna be a real pain in his ass, just you wait.”

“From what Kent’s said, I have a feeling that’s not entirely true,” Bitty says, and then laughs when Lardo elbows him in the side.

By the time they’ve walked to Kent’s room, Lardo’s composed herself, and Kent opens the door looking stressed. “When the fuck did I get so much stuff?” he grumbles.

Lardo and Bitty both laugh. “I’ll take your furniture,” Lardo offers eagerly.

Kent looks affronted for about two seconds before laughing and pulling her in for a hug. “Thanks for helping us figure everything out,” he tells her. “Seriously—you’re the fucking best.”

“I guess you dorks are kinda okay too.” She rolls her eyes, grinning. “But—you’ve gotta pack now, right?”

“Yeah,” Kent groans. “Here, though. Take my room key. You can have whatever after I’ve left.”

“Will do.” Lardo smiles sadly, and Bitty doesn’t think he’s mistaken the tremor in her voice as she offers another hug for them both before she leaves.

Earlier Bitty thought the hardest part would be waiting. But as he watches her go, as he thinks of Johnson, thinks about all of the friends he’s made that he _won’t_ get to talk to before he leaves—Chowder and Shitty and Dex and Nursey and Farmer, hell, even Ransom and Holster—he realizes that he was wrong.

The hardest part is saying goodbye.

xXx

“This is probably the most dangerous part,” Kent tells him. “We’ll be out in the open—there’s no way to hide you while we’re heading to the car.”

They’re standing alone in the lobby of the residence hall, he and Kent and Jack, bags over their shoulders. Kent had left his kit behind. “I won’t need it,” he said, back in his room. “I don’t want to look at it ever again.”

In contrast, Jack’s brought his own kit with him—but Bitty’s sort of glad for that, just in case there’s some sort of trouble.

“Ready?” Jack asks, steeling his gaze. He looks sad, Bitty thinks, and he feels just a little guilty for forcing Jack to leave what’s been his home for so many years. But then Jack gives him a small smile. “Hey—don’t look so worried. We’ve got your back, eh?”

“Definitely.” Kent reaches up with his free hand and pats Bitty on the shoulder.

Bitty smiles gratefully at both of them. “I know,” he says, and he means it.

They shoulder their bags and step outside.

It’s quiet out. The complex is pretty like this, the stars glinting brightly in the sky, and Bitty is caught between admiring it all one last time and the absolute terror he feels about being out in the open. Someone could catch them at any moment, and all he wants to do is hide.

But they have to keep going.

There’s the mess hall, in its place right next to the residence building, and the training hall just up the way. But there’s no time to look back at anything as they head past it all, out towards the administrative building and the parking garage, and—

“Fuck,” Kent whispers. “Stay low!”

There’s a light on in the administrative building.

It’s a window on the second floor, one that looks right out over the path they’re on—

And there’s a faint silhouette of a person in the window.

_Oh God._

“We should go around,” Jack mumbles. “If we circle around the building, they won’t even know we’re here.

Bitty and Kent nod in assent, and they’re just about to leave the path when the light in the window turns off.

“Fuck, they might’ve seen us— _run!_ ” Kent whispers harshly, and they take off toward the parking garage, Bitty’s heart jumping wildly into his throat, oh God oh God oh _God_.

His lungs burn from exertion by the time they reach the garage door. He’s surprised to see that Jack’s hands are shaking as he takes his keys out. He’s never seen Jack so scared before.

But then the lock clicks open and there’s no time to think about anything except running, running toward the car, running away from anyone who could be out there.

“Throw your bags in the trunk,” Kent instructs as they hurry towards the car. Bitty nearly stumbles on an uneven crack in the concrete, but he catches himself, paranoia prickling on the back of his neck as he reaches the car and dumps his bag in with Jack’s and Kent’s.

He slides into the backseat and barely has time to shut the door when Jack starts the ignition and whips out of the parking space. Bitty’s thrown forward against the back of Kent’s seat—“Ow!”

“Whoops. Sorry,” Jack says gruffly, and Bitty can’t even be mad at him because they’re doing it, they’re _escaping_. “Stay low. It’s better if they don’t see your face even if we do end up getting caught.”

“Alright,” Bitty says, voice trembling, and he curls up and lays across the seats. He shuts his eyes tightly, willing this all to just be over soon, _please, Lord, soon—!_

“Keep the headlights off ’til we’re off the grounds,” Kent instructs, voice floating somewhere above Bitty.

“I know,” Jack grumbles.

Kent sighs. “Just checking.”

They lapse into silence then. Bitty feels so tense he can hardly stand it. The path is bumpier than he remembers it being the last time they left the complex, and his stomach lurches a little when they go over a particularly large bump.

He wishes he could cuddle with Kent, or even with Jack, but that’s neither appropriate nor possible right now. Instead he just holds on, pressing his face into the seat cushion and trying his best to steady his breathing.

An immeasurable amount of time later, he feels a hand on his leg. “Hey,” Kent says. “You can sit up now. We’re away from the complex.”

_Lord_. Bitty pushes himself up. “Really?”

 “Really,” Jack answers, looking at him through the rearview mirror. And indeed, when Bitty looks back behind him, he can’t see anything but the open highway.

“Oh my God,” Bitty murmurs, a wave of relief flashing down his spine. “Are we—safe?”

“We don’t know yet,” Kent says, turning to watch as Bitty sits back and buckles his seatbelt. “But we will soon.”

“We weren’t followed,” Jack says decisively. “That gives us more than enough of a head start, according to what Lardo said.”

“Thank the _Lord_ ,” Bitty says, and then all of the tension floods out of his body at once, washing away and out onto the road beneath them.

Suddenly, he’s exhausted. He doesn’t quite manage to stifle a yawn.

Kent chuckles at that. “You should sleep,” he says, reaching back to squeeze Bitty’s hand. He still sounds weary, but there’s hope in that voice, and even a small amount of joy.

_Lord, thank you._

“I don’t want to miss anything,” Bitty says, even though he’s already started balling up his jacket to use as a pillow.

“You won’t,” Jack tells him, and his hands are steady now as he steers the car around a curve in the road. “It’s going to take us a long time to get to Samwell. Plenty of time to sleep.”

“Okay,” Bitty says, a small smile spreading on his mouth.

_Samwell_. It sounds like a nice place.

With that thought lingering in his head, he sleeps.

xXx

 

 

 

 

_Three months later._

 

“Jack!” Kent shouts. “Have you seen my bag—oh hey, Bits.” He walks into the kitchen just as Bitty’s sliding his pie into the oven.

“Jack’s not here,” Bitty tells him, pulling off his oven mitts and setting them aside. “He’s in the library, I think.”

Predictably, Kent slides his backpack off, dropping it in one of the kitchen chairs and walking over to wrap his arms around Bitty from behind. Ever since they moved into the house, Kent’s been touching him constantly, all hugs and handholding and soft kisses every time they’re even somewhat alone. Not that Bitty minds the affection, but it’s something to get used to—being held, being touched, being loved.

On that note, Bitty’s incredibly relieved that were able to convince the administration to let them live off campus their first year. With Jack and Kent it was easier, since they’re nontraditional college students anyway, but Bitty—well, they school had tried its best to loop him in with all the other freshmen.

“This sucks,” Kent had grumbled as they’d emailed the secretary back and forth. He’d still been tired after their long days spent driving away from the Aces complex, a time so transitory and steeped in fear that Bitty has trouble believing it was real. “I bet they’d let you live with us if we were married.”

“ _Kent!_ ” Bitty had exclaimed, because they’d barely been dating at that point and he’s still far, far too young to be thinking about marriage.

Kent had just grinned and wrapped him up in a hug, and Jack—well, Jack had left the room. It’d been hard back then, Bitty thinks, for Jack to watch them kiss and hug and touch.

Finally, they convinced the administration that Bitty was an independent and thus couldn’t leave campus when the dorms closed over winter breaks. After that they’d made short work of finding a townhouse, leaving the hotel they’d been staying at and moving in soon after.

That first week of living on their own had been the scariest. They were in the system, but classes hadn’t started yet, so there was a limited amount of people who knew that they even existed. Not to mention that there was a high chance that someone from the Aces could’ve let slip where they gone, or worse, that they could’ve had the information forced out of them.

Kent pulled Bitty aside, one of those first nights, and explained that Bitty probably wouldn’t be able to speak with his parents again—or at least for a very long time, until they were sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that no one in the Aces management was looking for them anymore. Even though Bitty had almost expected that outcome, it still came like a blow to the chest. He missed his parents that week more than ever.

He’s finally free, but it seems there are some shackles that will never truly be broken.

The fear dragged at he and Jack and Kent for days, weeks even. But time went on and no one showed up to murder them in their sleep, despite the fact that Bitty had started having nightmares about it, about falling asleep one night and never waking up, of blades flashing above his head and hands tight at his throat.

It was easier once Kent and Jack started pre-season practices. They’d gone to the rink a few days ahead of time to practice and break in their skates, and they’d let Bitty skate with them too, taught him how to pass and how to shoot. It’d been a lot of fun, actually, but Bitty’s well aware that hockey is a full contact sport and he’s most definitely not a fan of that—he’ll stick with figure skating, thank you very much.

Slowly, they eased into their life at Samwell. Classes started in a flurry of activity, and it didn’t take long at all to get settled into a daily routine. And now they’re here.

It’s been over a week since Bitty’s even thought about being scared.

Kent presses a kiss to Bitty’s cheek, pulling him back to the present. “Aww, he’s always at the library. When do you think he’ll be home?”

“Should be any minute now.” Bitty smiles, craning his neck up for a proper kiss. And—oh, Kent’s pushing him up against the counter, kissing him harder, _oh_ —“K-Kent,” Bitty splutters, “I gotta set the timer!”

“Oh, all right.” Kent smirks fondly, and as soon as Bitty’s pressed the start button on the timer, Kent goes right back to kissing him. “You’re so… mmn,” Kent trails off, breath heavy against Bitty’s face.

“Oh?” Bitty raises an eyebrow, laughing when Kent smirks again.

“So—good,” Kent says, and it seems like he’s trying to be casual but his breath betrays him, hitching at the end of the word.

Bitty’s heart is so, so full. “You too, Kenny.” He beams at him, sliding his knuckles up Kent’s cheek. Kent catches Bitty’s hand, holds it there against his face, and Bitty stares into his eyes for a pleased moment before leaning in and kissing him again, again. This never gets old, the warmth of Kent’s mouth, the soft press of lips and the fluttering slide of tongues, the way arousal starts to burn hot in his groin when Kent slides his hands into Bitty’s hair and kisses him even harder.

“Hey,” Kent pants a moment later, and then he loosens his grip on Bitty and drops to his knees, grinning. “You wanna—?”

“Kent Parson, not in my kitchen!” Bitty frowns down at him, swatting him in the shoulder.

“But Bitty,” Kent says, stroking a hand over Bitty’s obvious erection through his jeans—and oh, maybe forsaking the kitchen rule wouldn’t be so bad just this once—

The front door opens, and Jack walks in, eyebrows flying up as he takes in the situation. “Sorry—am I interrupting something?”

“No!” Bitty flushes, pulling Kent off the floor. “We were _just moving_ to the bedroom,” he adds, aiming a stern look at Kent for good measure.

Kent cracks up, sliding his hand around Bitty’s waist as he stands. “Fine, fine, we can go upstairs. Coming, Jack?”

“Well—if you guys want me there.” Jack blinks in surprise, nervously shifting his weight.

“Aww, honey—of course we want you there,” Bitty murmurs, stepping over to give him a brief hug.

And this is new—they’ve been attending classes for almost three months now, but they’ve only been officially dating Jack for about a week. It’d taken a lot of talking, a lot of reassurance on all three of their parts—Bitty’d been worried that he couldn’t stand up to all the years that Jack and Kent had been together, that Jack would decide he didn’t want Bitty after all and Kent would agree to leave him.

But it’d turned out that Jack was even more worried about being the odd one out than Bitty was, since Bitty and Kent had started dating first. And bizarrely, Kent had been worried about _both_ of them leaving him, a notion Bitty hopes they’d quickly squashed with loving words and mouths and bodies.

“Jack,” Kent says, shuffling over to stand beside them, “First of all, you’re our boyfriend. Of course we wanna sleep with you. Second of all—I told you, didn’t I? I’m gonna have sex with you until you finally tell me you don’t want to anymore.” His voice has dropped low. “And if you never tell me that? Then it’s fine by me.”

Jack snorts. “I—okay, Kenny.” He smiles, shaking his head. “But we can’t mess around for too long. We’ve got our Skype call tonight.”

“Oh, shit,” Bitty gasps. “I forgot about that! I haven’t read the first chapter of the book that Lardo wanted me to read with her.”

Just a couple of weeks ago, Chowder had managed to configure the encryption signals from the Aces complex so they could safely Skype without having it intercepted. Bitty had very nearly cried from joy at getting to see their friends again—he and Jack and Kent had all crowded around Jack’s computer, laughing and talking and waving as everyone cycled through one or two at a time. It’d been a wondrous breakthrough, yes, but one that Bitty’s lamenting at the current moment.

“Heh, guess you should go read that instead of—you know,” Kent teases, slipping his arm around Bitty’s waist again nonetheless.

“Weeeell,” Bitty says, drawing out the syllable, “I don’t see why you couldn’t, I dunno, suck my dick while I read?”

“Hmm. Tempting.” Kent raises his eyebrows. “But then I could always just fuck Jack, you know.”

Jack laughs. “I could be convinced to do that.”

Bitty pouts. “Aww, y’all’re leaving me out?” He’s so aroused he’s shaky, and he’s starting to feel confined in his jeans—Kent is _not_ allowed to leave him hanging like this, God.

“Maybe.” Kent grins cheekily. But then Bitty raises his eyebrows and turns and kisses him, pressing himself all up along Kent’s body. Kent groans softly into his mouth, the sound only exacerbating Bitty’s impulse to press forward against Kent’s hips—“Okay, okay,” Kent gasps, hands sliding down to Bitty’s waist. “Y-yeah. Fuck.”

“I changed my mind,” Jack says huskily, and when they both look up, his pupils are blown out and his lips are slightly open. “I wanna watch you guys.”

“Oh?” Kent grins. “I guess that’s fine by me. Think you can read while I fuck you?” he turns to Bitty, waggling his eyebrows.

“I can try,” Bitty says, laughing. Kent leans in to kiss him again, but just then Bitty feels arms around him from behind, and then Jack is lifting him up over his shoulder as Bitty squeaks, “ _Jack_!”

“We’re going to the bedroom now,” Jack says, and Bitty can tell just from the tone of his voice that he’s smirking.

“Yeah, but you can put me _down_ —ugh,” Bitty groans as Jack starts walking. “I literally just signed up for this, didn’t I?” He wrinkles his nose at Kent, who’s walking up the stairs behind them.

“Yep,” Kent laughs, popping the ‘p’.

But then Jack nudges open the door to Bitty and Kent’s bedroom—and it would be Jack’s too if he hadn’t requested his own space. At any rate, he sleeps with Bitty and Kent so often that it hasn’t yet mattered. Jack puts Bitty down next to the bed, and then Bitty gasps as Kent immediately walks him backwards into Jack’s body, as they sandwich him together and Kent stares at him with arousal clear in his eyes.

“See? Painless, huh?” Kent asks, sliding his hand into Bitty’s hair.

Bitty laughs. “You’re ridiculous, you know?”

“Yeah,” Kent says softly, and Bitty gasps as Jack chuckles and winds his hand around to press the heel of his palm to Bitty’s erection. “But so is _he_.”

“I guess you’re right,” Bitty says, and then he’s done talking, caught up in staring at the myriad of colors in Kent’s eyes, in feeling the sensations of Jack wrapped around him and Kent’s breath warm against his cheek.

Kent kisses him. Satisfied and warm, Bitty closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done!! Goodness!!!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's read along as this has been posted. I'm sorry it took so long--life truly got out of hand for a while, but every comment and reaction has been such a delight to read!
> 
> Thank you again to yoursummerfrost and jacksbits for being such a wonderful, ever-present source of support. I love my gal pals <3
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed reading!!!


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